


Half Life

by Luthor



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Future-Widowtracer, Inaccurate Medical Shit, Mentions of Kidnap, Past-Amélie Lacroix/Gérard Lacroix, Pining, Psychological Trauma, Slow Build, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Widowtracer, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:30:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6801925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slow-Build Widowtracer: Amélie fights to feel, Lena fights for Amélie.</p>
<p>Multi-chapter spanning the rise and fall of Widowmaker, as witnessed by Lena Oxton, who goes beyond the boundaries of acceptable to bring Amélie back from the brink. For the most part, that means hiding out in Overwatch's abandoned Headquarters and recovering from wounds years-old and bone-deep.</p>
<p>/</p>
<p>'Even her voice sounds wrong, wrong, <i>awful</i>.</p>
<p>“Foolish girl,” she coos, and Lena’s arm hair stands on end. “You could never stop this from happening.”'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I've been planning this fic for a little while now and the idea just will not leave me alone. As you can see from the tags, this is going to focus on who Amélie was before she became Widowmaker, how she and Lena met, and will eventually move towards my little AU future for them. It's going to be multi-chapter (updates as often as I can write them), angsty as all hell (there will be the odd fight scene, but there will be no in-depth writing on the trauma Amélie has suffered at the hands of Talon), and a bit of a journey. I have just a few points to get through before we begin, however. 
> 
> 1\. I’m jumping on the ‘Amélie was a ballet dancer’ bandwagon because it fits so well. I’ve added a little twist to keep things vaguely original, but hey, this is fanfiction. Another point: the final line in Chapter One (not the Preface), and also the chapter title, is inspired entirely by a piece of dialogue from Kill La Kill. As in, it’s lifted almost word for word. No excuses!!! 
> 
> 2\. As you’ll notice, I’m taking liberties with Overwatch canon because there’s so little material for it just yet. When new material does come out, a lot of what I have here will be wrong, so keep that in mind when reading. I’m still digesting all of the information on the characters and their affiliations, so there’s bound to be some strange tweakings on my end that probably shouldn’t/wouldn’t ever happen in canon. Keep that in mind, too, maybe. 
> 
> 3\. And finally, a huge thank you to [omegastation](http://omegastation.tumblr.com/) and [janedre](http://janedre.tumblr.com/) for all the help they've being with the French translations, and to [keelahh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/keelahh/pseuds/keelahh/works) for her beta work, and providing a lot of awesome ideas that she’s been kind enough to let me incorporate into this fic. You’re all stars, and brainstorming with you has helped a lot in writing this!

It is mid-evening by the time Amélie closes up _Mes Petites Fleurs_ , and already winter-dark.

Inside the ballet studio had been pleasantly warm and lively up until her last student’s parent had arrived to take them home, smiling and thankful, and now she is left to marvel at how vacuously quiet such a little studio can feel with just her in it. Alone, she spends several minutes tidying away equipment, sweeping and mopping floors, and gathering her purse and coat to leave. The air outside bites at her fingers and her nose as she locks the front door, pressing her palm to the security touch-pad, and she regrets instantly having forgotten her scarf at home.

She had been rushed this morning, in no small thanks to Gérard, though thinking of her husband brings a smile to her lips – tender and small. She will no doubt be home before him, and plans now what she might make for dinner. There is a butcher’s not far from her ballet studio, and a bakery just beyond it – a sweet after dinner wouldn’t hurt. Gérard will appreciate a steak, she thinks, cooked medium rare and well-seasoned. He’s always home so late; she would have the time to prepare something to remind them both of Annecy.

Tucking her purse beneath her arm, she waits by the roadside until the traffic signal permits her to cross, and then takes a left. The street is bustling around her, the city dwellers finishing for work as she has, now making their way home or on to some destination that Amélie likes to guess at – a friend’s house for dinner, perhaps, or the theatre with family to see a new play.

At the butcher’s, she stands in line behind a woman wearing a large, faux-fur-lined coat, and several rings adorning each finger over her black suede gloves. Amélie tries to imagine where she’ll be going after she’s collected her order – who the leg of lamb is for; family, friends, and neighbours? Oh, but a dinner party would be so droll. Amélie can hardly remember the last time she hosted one. She certainly does not know enough people, in this new city, to invite back to her home for food.

Ahead of her, the woman thanks the butcher, accent thick and familiar. Amélie smiles as she passes, and the woman returns it without hesitation. At least she has this, she muses, a city where strangers will still smile at her on the street, or packed into too-small butcher’s shops, where the chill is almost as pressing as outdoors. It makes it feel just a little more like home, for all she’s missing of it.

She is not long at the butcher’s, but takes her bagged steak in one hand and is ready to half-jog her way into the bakery before closing time, when a flashing billboard catches her eye. The screen’s original advert is interrupted mid-way through, the words _BREAKING NEWS_ coming quick and large where a man advertising a disinfectant product had just been projected. It draws Amélie’s attention, as much as she dislikes to gape in the street, but the news can hardly be new. Even while the city perseveres as though little is changing, the omniwar is an ever-present threat, consuming victims with each day.

That is what she is expecting, at least, a new local crisis, and the billboard delivers.

For seconds, Amélie is left staring at her husband’s masked face. It is a picture she is long familiar with – a snapshot taken of him in full-suit, and often the one shown in general news related to his alter-ego. She blinks several times, and yet her surprise does not clear. _But, Gérard—?_ In just a moment, her heart both stutters through several painful beats, and feels as though it might have stopped. Amélie gasps at the message on the screen, her eyes catching on two phrases that have her fingers releasing around her prized steak.

_Assassination attempt. Casualties unknown._

 

Lena flits into being like a spare-thought – too fast, near-intangible, with little idea of her intended destination until she arrives there.

She’s onto Overwatch’s medical and laboratory floor before security can so much as ask for an I.D., although several scanners pick her up as she flutters through a door – flash her image on too many screens, gives security a half-second of panic before the warning is cleared and their hands shy back away from their harnessed pistols.  

“A’right, Winston?” she calls from below his perch, and is behind his shoulder in other leap. “I heard the alarm from downstairs. What’ya looking at?”

Her gaze flits from his computer screens and back towards his face. The expression there has her finally slowing down. Winston looks agitated, although he tries to hide it when he meets her gaze, as though she’s caught him unawares. Before he can conceal the expression again, a weary sigh puffs past his lips, and he turns back to the screen. Lena follows his gaze, her brow drawing taught.

“Is that—?”

“Yes,” Winston confirms.

“Why’s his light flashing?” They stare a moment at Gérard Lacroix’s avatar, the banner surrounding it flashing red and urgent, but still lit. That’s the important thing, Lena notes. Once the light’s out, that’s it – no rewinding time, no second chance. “Winston?”

Before Winston can do more than shake his head in frustrated bafflement, another light begins to flash – this time paired with a minor alarm. The gorilla sighs again, activating a button on his touchscreen in order to answer the call from the front desk security. Behind him, a hand on his shoulder, Lena waits with bated breath.

“ _Sir, we’ve got a situation down here_ ,” the security officer says, and Lena flashes another concerned look Winston’s way. For his part, Winston does little more than frown.

“Can you handle it?”

“ _Yes, boss, but it’s about—_ ”

Lena’s ability acts on instinct, by now, has her half across the room before she can hear the end of that statement – before, even, she can hear Winston’s quick call for her to not get herself involved. She isn’t security, no, but how bloody hard can it be compared to what she does in the field? She zips down a corridor of unsuspecting people, shouting an apology at the cup of coffee she almost displaces from somebody’s hand, and is down five flights of stairs before her time-hopping ability winds down into a recharge.

At the inconspicuous reception room, it does not take her more than a quick look to find the disturbance – a woman, so familiar that Lena’s shock doubles before her heart sinks. _Of course she’s here_. On foot, then, she jogs towards the officer that Amélie Lacroix is all but assaulting in her bid to gain access upstairs.

She approaches hands-raised, a, “ _whoa, whoa, whoa!_ ” quick out of her mouth before the apparent argument can go much further. The security officer steps back, at her approach, uncertain, while Amélie has much the opposite reaction. Lena is a familiar face that she grasps onto with both tearful eyes, a hand small and shaking at her wrist.

“Please,” she tells her, and Lena is nodding, already, before she’s even had anything asked of her. “You know what’s happening? There’s someone I can talk to? The news is reporting— _please_. I need to be sure he’s—”

 _Okay_ , Lena finishes in her mind, and then her stomach twists. _Alive_.

“It’s alright,” she tells her, though Amélie’s shaking head tells her that it isn’t, that nothing about this situation is _alright_. She turns to the security officer, instead, to the one problem that she can actually round-about fix. “This is Gérard’s missus,” Lena explains, “I can vouch for her. I’m gunna take her upstairs to wait, yeah?”

She does not let security object, although she can see that they want to – is sure that they’re tailed until they’re through the door, and the security breach of Amélie’s passing beneath the scanners is wiped clean. Only once they’re boarding an elevator does Lena glance backwards, and while they’re not quite being followed, she can suddenly feel the security cameras on her much keener.

She does not let it put her off. Security can take it up with Winston, if they need to, and she is sure that they will.

The elevator rides in tense silence. Once they reach the appropriate floor, Lena guides them through the door to Winston’s lab, turning only to make sure that Amélie is still trailing behind her. She looks little better than she had at security – composed, perhaps, but her amber eyes are large and anxious. She had removed her hand from Lena’s wrist as they’d set off, and Lena has had to stop herself, several times, from reaching out to her in turn.

She doesn’t know Amélie, exactly. Knows of her, would be more accurate, and she’s never seen her at Overwatch Headquarters before, but for the pictures that Gérard has shown them – holiday snaps, filled with amusing anecdotes, his deep laughter and the smile that would light up his dark eyes despite the inevitable teasing.

In the pictures, Amélie is always smiling, always bright-eyed and clearly smitten. The woman scurrying behind Lena in order to keep up could be someone else entirely. She’d never expected to have Amélie here, not in all of her perfectly coiffed chignon bun glory, and wishes there’d been a better reason for it, than the fear for her husband’s life.

 

Winston is waiting for them when they arrive.

Lena shouldn’t be surprised about that, and yet she turns suddenly wide-eyed, feels suddenly years younger. She holds herself awkwardly, uncertain what to do with herself, what to say, but for a half-gesture in Amélie’s direction. But it is Amélie who steps forward, her hands closed into fists by either side.

“Gérard,” she says, voice breaking, and Winston looks nervously between the pair of them. But, that’s good, Amélie thinks, it must be good. It gives her hope that she grasps onto with both hands lest it try to fight itself free again. Right now, she’ll take anything but pity – anything but that desperate look on the face of the person who has to inform her that she is no longer married.

 _A widow, already,_ she thinks. _Ma mère would hardly believe it._

She shakes her head at the thought, at Winston and at Lena both. At the billboard that had brought her here, when she should be at home, preparing dinner, awaiting Gérard’s inevitable return.

“Where is he?”

 

They put her in a windowless room to wait.

The walls are stark and grey, covered in posters and slogans, and dominated by a too-large couch and armchair. Amélie sits in the centre of the former, her body stiff and slumped forward, eyes glued to a television screen. She’s flicked through thirty-three news channels, already, and yet not one has anything more to add than the hair-raising shots of the aftermath from a fight. There is no talk of a body, at least, and only minor civilian casualties.

But this _waiting_ —it will drive her half-mad.

That not even Gérard’s own people can tell her where he is, how he is, has her nerves fraying at the ends. All this time, he has told her how safe he was, despite the dangers of this job. How well-looked-after he was. The crew—the medics, the support, the defence that was all put in place to make sure that he would come back to her each day, to late dinners and a shower before his exhausted body falls into bed beside her.

She can deal with his haphazard timetable – the never being able to commit to plans for fear of his work sweeping him away halfway through them – but _not this_. Half an hour might have passed already, and her body aches with it, with exhaustion and fatigue and hunger. Feeling ill with the news images on screen, suddenly, she mutes the television and folds in on herself – both hands to her face.

She could have lost him while standing in line at the butcher’s, while considering beef or pork. She could have been fretting over which dessert her evening palette would prefer while he was looking down the business end of a semi-automatic. What had been the last thing she’d said to him, earlier this morning? Had she even told him how much she loves him?

Guilt comes to her, heavy and confusing, and Amélie takes a breath as she begins unfolding herself from her place on the sofa. She cannot sit like this for a second longer. Slowly, she teases each aching muscle until she can stand straight, and folds her arms around her ribs. Thirty minutes – forty, perhaps – and still no news. Is that good or bad?

Before she can begin to fret anew, the previously empty space to her right warps into a figure, as though the air had simply spat her out, and Amélie’s frayed nerves have her gasping almost straight out of her heels. Lena is at once apologetic, looking at her with those big, brown eyes, palms-forward as though to calm her. Amélie relaxes when she sees her, the scare having allowed her to dispel every note of tension tight within her body, and yet without it holding her up, she suddenly realises just how tired she really is.

“Is there any news?” she asks, and feels the urge to fall to her knees so consuming when Lena gives only a timid shake of her head, that it takes a reserve of willpower that she was unaware she possessed to keep her upright. Recognizing her fatigue, Lena’s apologetic expression turns into a half-pitying smile.

“I know just what you need,” she promises, and beckons Amélie towards the back of the room, where various appliances have been set up.

To call it a kitchen would be an overstatement, although it has everything one would need for a working lunch. Lena goes to the kettle, first, filling it with cold water and putting it on to boil as she locates two clean mugs. Teabags next, before Amélie can speak up, though she will take tea and even be grateful for it, at this point.

She doesn’t have another fight left in her.

“There’s nothing like a good cuppa tea to steel the nerves,” Lena says when she presses the mug into her hands, so hot that Amélie almost drops it in her rush to take the handle. She does not try to sip from it yet, but blows an exhausted sigh over its steaming surface. Before her, her own mug in hand, Lena offers another of those pitying smiles. “Don’t worry,” she tells her, voice soft, “we all know what Gérard’s capable of. He’ll be back here before you know it – I’d bet my left arm on it.”

Amélie stares between her young, hopeful face, to the left arm in question, raised palm-up and on display so as to showcase its worth. She wishes she could manage a smile – a thank you, perhaps, for the tea. Instead, a quiet nod of her head, and Lena’s smile fades.

“Well, then,” she says, and Amélie is given the sudden impression that Lena wouldn’t know what to do with silence, were it ever forced upon her. 

“Should it be taking this long?” Amélie asks her. “Shouldn’t he have a way to contact the people here – wouldn’t somebody be with him? He said he’s never asked to fight alone, that there’s a group of you—a team?”

“Oh, sure,” Lena agrees. “Only—well, it’s a little difficult to ring home while you’re getting fired at, you know? Oh, no—” she hastens to add, watching Amélie’s face pale. “No, he isn’t alone. Winston said at least four of ‘em are out there. Mercy’s with them, too, so you know he’s in good hands. Communication’s down, but we know they’re sending up a signal from somewhere. We’ve just gotta wait until they get back.”

Amélie huffs a sigh, looking down at the tea that she does not want. When she lifts her head again, Lena looks expectant, hopeful, as though waiting for Amélie to show a sign of having heard her pep talk and taken her words on board. And oh, but she wishes she could. She closes her eyes a moment, curses quietly in her native language, and then forces her mouth into a small smile.

“I cannot help but think the worst.”

Lena’s face drops again, so emotive that Amélie is half-certain she could name every new expression, and then she’s stepping forward, a hand to Amélie’s arm, the soft press of her fingers in what she thinks is supposed to be a reassuring squeeze. That smile comes to Lena’s lips, again, but gentler now – no longer pitying.

“We take care of our own here, alright? Any one of us would do all they could to keep another on their feet. That’s like family.”

She’d meant to inspire hope, Amélie thinks, and yet she finds herself feeling suddenly cold – feeling suddenly very, very alone. It’s a selfish thought, but it comes too quickly for her to discard, with a bitterness in her mouth that asks how it’s right that Gérard should have _family_ , while she struggles even to make friends among the parents whose children she teaches.

She discards the thoughts as quickly as they come, and then nods her head, accepts Lena’s words for the truth that she’s sure Lena believes in. Distressed, she turns her attention back to her cup of tea. Her first sip is far too milky, unsweetened as Lena prefers it, and burning so hot still that she feels its progress right down to the bottom of her stomach.

 _Like family_ , she hears again, and wonders why Gérard has never used that term to describe his work friends to her before.

Before she can properly respond, a noise from the lab draws her attention. Lena’s gaze darts towards the door before Winston can arrive within its frame, his large eyes fixing on Amélie, and with a strange smile on his lips – but Amélie knows what that means. He hardly needs to speak before she’s gasping and following after him, demoting her still-hot tea to the nearest surface.

 

They arrive back in a calamity of unfamiliar voices.

Amélie watches their approach in slow motion, her heart _thud-thud-thudding_ inside her chest, hands clenched by either side. It’s not until she sees him among the small crowd of Overwatch operatives that she can finally catch her breath. He cuts a striking figure in his armoured suit, his skin dark against its silver plating, his face as soft and round as it was in his youth. Seeing him, alive, unharmed, feels like breathing for the first time since she’d stopped before that billboard advertisement.

Gérard is slow to notice her, his attention on the mask between his hands, fingers picking at a part of the plating that has come loose. He nods, sparingly, to the woman following half a step behind him, speaking animatedly while she scratches off notes on her clipboard.

Amélie hears the tail end of what she’s saying, a _take two and call me in the morning_ , without once looking up from her writing. She continues on for half a step too long, pauses just in time to notice the almost-stranger in the lab, and then pivots back towards the place where Gérard has stopped, mid-step, a knowing smile at her lips.

“Amélie?”

For a moment, he’s all concern. She’s never turned up at his work before, nor had he expected security to let her through but in case of an emergency. In the three long strides that it takes for him to reach her, he is half-expecting her to tell him of some awful accident that she’s played witness to, or barely escaped from – is already subconsciously checking her body for injuries. It’s only when his gaze returns to her face, to the pressed-thin lips and the wobble that she can’t quite keep from her chin, that he realises she’s there for _him_.

“Oh, Amélie,” he sighs, taking her in his arms, but Amélie does not let herself be held for long. She presses up on tip-toes, wraps both arms tight around his shoulders, and squeezes him so tightly that he winces. She draws back instantly, a soft noise coming from her mouth, as she just now realises how one of his shoulders hangs awkwardly lower than the other.

“You’re hurt,” she tells him in their native language – quietly, just for him. Gérard responds in kind.

“It was dislocated, nothing serious.”

She shakes her head at that, perceiving the lie. _Assassination attempt_ , the billboard had said, and yet here he is, still in one piece, a head taller than her and smiling as though he can hide the horror that he’s just witnessed behind the whites of his pearly teeth. Her attention falls suddenly to the mask in his hand, the chipped armour that feels strangely singed when she touches a finger to it. When she turns back to Gérard for an explanation, his expression turns tight with concern. They will talk about this properly, that look says, but later – _later_.

“I could have lost you tonight,” she realises aloud.

Gérard’s hand on the small of her back presses her closer, her chest to his, until the thick of her perfume is cleansing the stink of gunpowder and war from his nostrils. He breathes her in like a drowning man gasps for air, his lips tender to the top of her head, pressing one long, lingering kiss to her hairline. He pulls back only to see her face.

“Amélie,” he tells her, “nothing out there could keep me from coming home to you.”

“Don’t— please.”

She tries to lower her face again, but his fingers catch her chin.

“Nothing,” he promises, and worst of all, is that she’s sure he believes it.

Having come so close to proving him wrong tonight, she cannot stand to argue. Another day, she will tell him not to give her promises that he cannot keep. For now, she wraps her arms around his middle, and closes her eyes when he presses his lips to hers.

 

Ahead of them, lingering behind all those who have left the lab in order to give the pair a modicum of privacy, Lena waits in an open doorway. She’s close enough to hear their dulcet conversation, the _I bought you steak for dinner_ , _but_ _I dropped it on the ground_ that she cannot translate, but which brings laughter quick and warm from Gérard’s smiling mouth. Amélie looks indignant before she cannot help but join in, hand swatting at his armoured chest.

In five years, Amélie will have all but forgotten this moment.

Inside Lena’s chest, her heart thumps uncomfortably hard, driving blood through her veins quickly enough to give her a rush. She feels suddenly dizzy, thinks she needs to sit down, and yet she cannot tear her eyes away from the brimming, tearful smile on Amélie’s face. She is relief-softened and so bright that it leaves Lena dazed from staring.

She will wonder, those five years from now, if it’s a symptom of her condition that had her waiting here to watch. If it was her ability to be present in time itself, whenever that time is, that made her commit to memory the way that Amélie’s eyes alight when she laughs, while she still could.

Five years from now, she will wonder if she’s always known, even back then, just how much she’ll miss seeing this smile on Amélie’s face when it has all but disappeared.


	2. You Catch it Like a Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of plan: the first chapter was too long and disconnected so I'm splitting it into two. The line from Kill La Kill is in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you again to keelahh, omegastation, and janedre, and to everyone reading!

Amélie remembers the first time that Gérard had told her, _I’ll be a hero one day_.

She had been in ballet school at the time, painfully shy, and tailing her closest friend around at a house party. She can’t remember whose party it had been, or even what they had been celebrating; a birthday, she wants to say. The house had been large, too loud, and she had lost sight of Ninon while she’d been dancing with her at-the-time boyfriend. She remembers the back door being open, and the garden relatively undisturbed but for empty ice coolers and a box for recyclable bottles and cans.

She hadn’t wanted to be there, had even despised Ninon a little for dragging her along. Gérard had been only a year older than her, a friend-of-a-friend of the house owner, although he’d also managed to lose whoever he’d come with. He’d come into the garden calling a name, and then seen Amélie, alone but for the drink in her hands, and had stopped to talk a while.

He had a face that could have put him five years younger than her, if not for his build. He’d teased her for being alone, and she had almost left him in the garden without a _goodbye, nice to meet you_ , when he’d recognised her. _That dancer_ , he’d called her, _Ninon’s friend?_

She can’t remember if she’d been insulted at that. Probably, she thinks.

_Show me some tricks_ , he’d told her, and she had scowled.

_Ballet is not for_ tricks.

She had meant to insult him, but he was too good-natured for it. He’d simply shrugged and told her, _fine. I’ll show you some tricks, instead_. She had stood, biting the inside of her bottom lip, as he flipped himself onto his hands and paraded around the damp grass upside down. He’d stopped in front of her, shifting his weight from hand to hand, his face darkening with the effort to keep his body upright. All the blood rushing to his round cheeks.

Still smiling, she remembers, and she had laughed.

They’d talked for a while, after that. He brought back two cans of cider from inside, and they’d opened them together, sitting on garden steps with their bare feet in the wet grass. She can’t recall what they spoke of; their schools, their friends, their futures. He’d made some quip about her ballet career, about making it Big Time, and she had shrugged and asked him, why not? Said, _I’ve got greatness in me_ , mainly joking.

Gérard hadn’t laughed, just smiled as though he already knew. Told her, _I’ve got greatness in me, too_.

He’d said, _I’m going to be a hero one day_ , and she’d thought he was talking about his acrobatics, or else a plan to join the military. A firefighter. A doctor, even, though that would probably be her last guess. She hadn’t thought, back then, that he’d meant it literally. That he would don a shining silver suit and mask, armoured and equipped with gadgets and guns, that he’d take to the streets like some kind of vigilante.

That talk had come much later.

Now, she struggles to remember if she’d ever been wary of that – of the heroism that she’d recognised in him, even before he’d created his alter ego. She does not remember being intimidated. She had always known how dangerous his job was, hadn’t she? Gérard liked to sugar coat things, to hide the gory details from her, because he knew that she didn’t want to hear them.

But, she must have _known_.

There must have been a time when she had made peace with the fact that her husband would be in and out of gunfire, and there being nothing that she could do to talk him out of it. Then, why, she’s now left to wonder, does it feel like such an awful surprise when that first assassination attempt turns into another – turns into weeks and months of anxiety and fear, of the dread of seeing him off every morning uncertain if she will see him again for dinner?

Truthfully, she knows she could never have foreseen something so awful happening to him, even despite Overwatch and the organisation’s collective enemies.  She’d never expected that her husband, who only wanted to keep peace, to protect innocents, would become a walking target.

 

For his part, Gérard is patient with her.

He lets her fuss, lets her come to work with him each morning that she can, if just to see that he arrives in one piece. The first time that she stops him before he can enter the building, he waits with her until he’s almost five minutes late, standing with her outside the front windows because _I don’t want to let you go yet_.

He's not on an assignment that day, and so Winston lets it slide.

The second time it happens, however, he takes both her hands in his and narrows his eyes, contemplative. Amélie feigns innocence for all of three seconds before her expression caves, turns guilty and reluctant. She tugs on his hands again, tells him, “I know, you’re going to be late,” and expects that he’ll kiss her and say goodbye.

Instead, he taps her knuckles with one thumb. “Come inside with me.” It’s not what she’s expecting, but her expression almost instantly lights up. “Ah—I won’t be able to stay with you. I still have work to do, and you won’t be allowed free-rein of the place. But, people will be around. As long as you don’t distract them, Winston shouldn’t throw you out.”

The prospect of staying nearby brings out the levity in her, and Amélie swats gently at his arm. “Distract them?” she gasps, smiling. “What do you think I would do, Gérard? Throw paper aeroplanes at their heads while they’re trying to work? I know how to be discreet.”

“Mm,” Gérard agrees, taking a step backwards towards the front doors, and drawing Amélie with him by their joined hands. “But I meant with your beautiful face, of course.”

 

Amélie gets by with a lanyard, in the end, allowing her to pass beneath security scanners without alarm, and which cuts off her access to any of the important rooms. But that suits her just fine. Gérard stays with her long enough to properly introduce her to Winston, Mercy, and a few of the other operatives nearby.

He leaves once she’s made herself comfortable in the break room’s armchair, a fresh cup of coffee in front of her, and the book she’s been carrying around in her handbag for the last two weeks in her lap. It’s the French translation of a Japanese romance novel. Admittedly, the beginning hadn’t enthralled her, but then she hadn’t been able to pay it the attention it requires ever since a terrorist organization made Gérard the bullseye in their target.  

It’s time for her to give it a second chance, she figures. It’s not like there’s anything else that she can do today.

 

The morning passes swiftly.

People come and go from the break room, some saying hello to Amélie, and others not. She greets them in kind, peeking above the pages of her novel, now almost halfway through it. She closes it once to use the restroom, and then reads through until noon. By this time, the break room is seeing more visitors.  

Still with her book in her lap, a finger between the pages to keep her place, she glances around the room at those coming for their lunches. A couple takes the back table, while others come for their pre-prepared lunches, and then take them back to their work. The only person actually preparing fresh food is Angela Ziegler, who hums to herself as she chops a salad, and eats at least three cherry tomatoes before she notices Amélie’s stare.

She makes a noise of surprise when she spots her, having forgotten that Amélie was here at all. “Do you have lunch with you?” she asks, and Amélie shakes her head.

“I was waiting or Gérard to take his break. Do you know when he might finish?”

“Not anytime soon, if he’s with Winston,” Angela says, frowning. “They’re strategizing. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were in there all day.” At Amélie’s look of concern, Angela bats a hand, as though to wave her worry away. “Oh, they’ll eat later. But what about you?”

Amélie gives a dainty shrug. “I suppose I’m going out for lunch.”

Angela does not seem content with that. She is clearly close to Amélie’s age, and yet there’s a maternal instinct so strong in her that Amélie could almost think herself ten years younger. Turning momentarily back to her food, Angela flashes her a warm smile and asks, “Do you like salmon?”

Amélie’s answer is an indulgent yes, and more so when Angela turns out to be a wonderful cook.  

Angela sits with her a while after they’ve finished their lunch, making conversation, and it is easy for Amélie to understand why Gérard would think of the people here as friends, even family. Angela talks to her sparingly about Overwatch, leaving out large details about her work that Amélie understands not to ask for.

“You go with them on every _assignment_?” Amélie asks her, using the word that Gérard would, although it feels uncomfortable in her mouth.

“Many of them,” Angela agrees. “They have an awful habit of getting into trouble.” It’s said with a conspiratorial smile, which for the most part dispels Amélie’s discomfort with the topic. A noise from behind them draws her attention, and Angela turns just in time to spot a familiar mop of brown hair landing horizontally across the sofa. She turns her smiling face towards Amélie. “Some more than others.”

“I ‘eard that,” Lena calls, her head appearing over the back of the sofa a moment later.

“Oh, you were meant to.” Angela takes both of their plates from the table, stopping Amélie when she makes to join her in cleaning them up. “If you’re out here, I suppose Winston is finished with you? I hope he’s eaten something other than peanut butter in the last four hours.”

Lena makes a dubious, grinning noise, though Angela only shakes her head in turn.

“They’ve just left, actually. Got some, ah—” her gaze lands on Amélie, and then darts back away again, “work stuff to look into. Said they didn’t need me, but they’ll pick something up on the way back.” Her eyes narrow at that, darting in dismay towards the sink that Angela is beginning to fill with hot water. “Speaking of – I don’t reckon there’s any of that left over…?”

Angela makes a sympathetic noise. “Not today. There are sandwich fillings, still. Want me to throw something together for you?”

“No, tah, love” Lena tells her, and a second later she’s warped off the couch and into the tiny kitchen space, her head poking into the fridge. “Think anyone would mind if I used up the jam?”

“Probably,” Angela huffs, glancing over to where Lena is making the world’s fastest jam sandwich (timed and tested, by her own stopwatch). “But you need more than jam and bread to sustain yourself. Take some fruit with you, or I’ll be forced to hide vegetables in your cereal.”

Lena makes a disgusted face, but grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, and then takes the seat that Angela had just vacated at the table. Amélie cannot help but watch her as Lena bites into her sandwich, one cheek bulging with the size of her mouthful. She brings her hands together atop the table and waits until Lena notices that she’s being stared at to speak.

“You said they’ve left? Gérard, too?”

Lena blinks twice before nodding.

“But—” Amélie’s concerned gaze veers towards Angela. _Without their medic – without support?_

“Oh, don’t worry,” Lena tells her after swallowing, drawing her attention back. “It’s not that kinda operation. The worst they’ll have to fight off today is a runny nose.” Amélie nods at that, and now it is Lena’s time to stare, for just a little too long before she realises what she’s doing. She blinks her gaze away again, back down to her jam sandwich. “You here all day, then?”

“Until Winston throws me out,” Amélie jokes, but it draws a concerned expression from Lena.

“No, he wouldn’t—”

“Oh, I know,” Amélie cuts in, smiling as Lena’s earnest expression eases back into neutrality. “He’s very kind to let me stay here. I know it’s not exactly standard protocol to have your employee’s wife lingering around all day. I doubt Gérard would have even offered if I hadn’t been so…”

She trails off, looking for the right word, though Lena just smiles and shrugs before she can find it.

“You’re not exactly trouble,” she grins. “Worst you’re in for is getting bored to death. No offence, Angela.” From the sink, Angela makes a noise that says _offence taken_. “You know, there’s better places than this tiny room to spend your time. Winston has a whole gym upstairs, and then there’s the games room.”

“You have a games room…? Here?”

Lena shrugs again as she bites into her sandwich. “All work and no play…”

“What she means to say,” Angela says, attending to both the coffee machine and the kettle, “is that there’s more to the building than labs and conference rooms. Winston spends most of his time here. Lena, too. It’s a place to stop and rest for operatives who’ve been out all night, especially if they need medical care.” She pauses to grab three mugs. “Do you take tea or coffee, Amélie?”

“Coffee, please.” Amélie turns back to Lena as she finishes half of her sandwich in one too-large bite. “So, you live here?”

“Mm,” Lena grunts, still chewing, and shrugs her shoulders until her mouth is clear again. “Sometimes. S’easier to get to, and Winston didn’t exactly skimp on the bedrooms. It’s a lot bigger than my own place, and there’s always someone around, doing something. Means I get a lie-in before work, too,” she adds, grinning, and Angela brings their drinks to the table.

“I’m taking this back to the lab with me,” she says, holding her tea in hand, and the pair of them thank her for their own. “Try to stay out of trouble, Lena.”

“No promises!”

There’s a moment of quiet, once it’s just the pair of them. Amélie nurses her coffee close beneath her chin, the machine having brewed it to the perfect drinking temperature. She sips sparingly, feeling Lena’s gaze on her, and eventually lifts her head. Lena smiles once she meets her gaze, in that way that she has that makes it okay to hold eye contact with her for several seconds without it becoming uncomfortable.

Amélie can only wonder how she picked up this gift.

“So,” Lena says after a moment, drawing the word out as she taps her fingers against her mug. “You got any plans?”

“Well… I brought a book.”

“Wicked,” Lena grins, as though that answers the question well enough for her. “’Cause I’m pretty much done for the day, and it doesn’t seem fair, you being here with nothing to do for the next few hours.” Amélie wants to tell her that she has _plenty_ to do, but she’s distracted by Lena’s suddenly changing expression. She can as good as see the lightbulb that flickers on above her head. “We should do something. You know, there’s a cinema nearby. I bet we could get tickets to something good – there’s that new slasher film, from the series?”

Amélie blinks across from her, barely hiding her surprise, and Lena’s words finally catch up to her. She closes her mouth too quickly, and draws her mug of tea in closer towards her chest, cupping it in both hands.

“I mean— if you wanted to,” she tacks on, shaking her head, and Amélie suddenly finds herself unable to hide her smile.

It would so suit Lena, she thinks, to be the type of woman who could become your best friend halfway through your second conversation. It also helps, she supposes, that Lena seems just as enthusiastic about bad horror flicks as she is. There is an edge of underlying tension to her thoughts, however, a fear of some news regarding Gérard passing through Overwatch and missing her because she’s not there to intercept it, though that line of thinking quickly ends itself.

She cannot live her life on-edge, constantly in fear of horrible news – she won’t. Besides, she can hardly remember the last time that she went to the cinema, and with a friend, no less.

“Okay,” she agrees, finally. “Find out when that horror film is playing and we’ll go to see it.”

 

 

The following Saturday morning, Amélie opens up _Mes Petites Fleurs_ early.

Gérard had left as soon as he’d showered and dressed, out of the door with a quick kiss and a promise to let her know when he would be home, all while Amélie was halfway through making breakfast. She’d hoped that the smell of her omelette would stall him long enough for him to eat with her, but she had recognised the tension in his shoulders for what it was. They were getting closer to Talon, he’d told her, and each day he became more focused on this goal.

Alone, then, she readies her studio for today’s lesson, playing her practice music quietly while she waits for her students to arrive.  The ballet studio is not what she had envisioned for her future, although she cannot despise it. She’d had something back in France – an opportunity, if nothing else. She had come _so close_ to something more. Pausing mid-thought, she looks down to her feet, to the slippers that no longer sweep along a stage with the same grace that the wind uses to touch the surface of a still lake.

Some days, she misses it more than others.

She is brought out of her reverie again by a noise that makes it above the music; her text tone. She finds her phone where she’d left it, and smiles even despite herself when she sees Gérard’s message, a simple, _on va déjeuner ensemble?_ with three heart emojis. Lunch is a few hours away, yet, though Amélie finds herself quickly looking forward to it. She replies to confirm the date, and then puts her phone on silent in preparation for her morning lesson.

 

Lena cannot abide waiting.

Anything longer than a few seconds is too long – it takes too much from her.  She feels it in her stomach, quick like butterflies, or shaky hands trying to hold a too-full teacup without spilling. She’s _nervous_ , suddenly, and the worst part is, she isn’t entirely certain why. Why the nerves, or why the waiting.

The morning escapes her, and it feels far too familiar to those times that she would disappear mid-sentence, only to reappear three weeks later, having a one-sided conversation with an empty room. She does not like it. Winston picks up on her mood when she knocks over his glass of fruit juice and calls it a wanker. He peers at her curiously through his spectacles, and Lena turns her scowling face away.

“Sorry.” She picks the shattered glass from the floor. “I’ll get you another.”

Winston does not stop her, but as his second drink is set down in front of him, he fixes Lena with a stare. It is both parts concern and bemusement; Lena is well familiar with these looks. She shrugs her shoulders and sighs, trying to express that she really isn’t sure what’s gotten into her, and Winston does not pry. That said, he does give her the rest of the day off.

“The gym’s empty,” he tells her, sending her a purposeful nod. “I can arrange for a trainer—”

“Nah, I’ve got it,” Lena cuts in. “Thanks, though.”

She makes it to the break room before lunch, while it’s still empty and too quiet, and fixes herself a glass of water. She chugs the first pint and then refills it halfway, nursing the glass beneath her chin as she leans with her back against one of the counters. From her position, she can see down both the corridor back to Winston’s lab and meeting room, and the corridor towards the exit. While she’s glaring at the elevator, it opens under her gaze, as though she’s willed it into being herself.

And she is left to stare, mouth vaguely agape, at the woman who walks through the doors with a sandwich bag in both hands.

Amélie isn’t wearing her heels today, though Lena still couldn’t call her _short_. She’s dressed down, from what can be seen poking out of her coat, and striding purposefully towards the break room. Lena’s heart bangs inside her chest, a _pop! goes the weasel_ that puts the fear in her as she realises just why she’s been feeling so strange all day.

_For Amélie? Why—why?!_

Before she can think, her flighty instincts send her warping behind the back of the sofa, the pint glass still in both hands. She holds her breath to keep from groaning aloud, and hopes to God that Amélie hadn’t seen her. She thinks she was quick enough, though how long she can hide behind here, without being noticed—

“Lena…?”

Amélie’s voice comes uncertain, quiet, as though she’s half-convinced herself that she might not have seen the split-second of a woman standing against the counters. Good, Lena thinks, hoping she’ll convince the rest of her before she’s seen. Unfortunately, and inevitably, the soft _tap-tap_ of Amélie’s footsteps gradually makes its way to the sofa’s edge. Lena, staring straight ahead, slowly tips her head upwards.

Amélie is looking down at her with concern. “Lena?” she asks, again, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. She casts a quick glance around the room, as though to find the reason for Lena’s hiding, and then turns back to her, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Lena agrees, warping up onto her feet. Amélie takes a step back in surprise. “Just—lost an earring!” Amélie nods her head, but then gazes with pin-prick precision at the very un-pierced ears on either side of Lena’s face. “Oh! Right. It… wasn’t mine?”

A pause, and Amélie nods her head again, though her confusion is obvious.

“Okay,” she says, finally, blinking her frown away. “Have you seen—”

“Amélie?”

They turn together at the sound of her name, to where Gérard is waiting, halfway to the elevator already. Amélie turns back to her with an apologetic smile, an “ _au revoir_ ,” quick and soft from her mouth before she’s turning to leave the break room. Lena watches her go with no short amount of confusion, and the strangest sense of despair. She waits long enough to see Amélie slip her hand into Gérard’s, and turns her back to them before she can see the kiss that she is half-expecting – half-dreading.

“Oh, no,” she whispers, frowning at her own flighty heart, that would have her sweaty-palmed over a married woman. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Lena—?” She turns too quickly, sending herself dizzy, almost, until she spots Amélie and Gérard waiting for the elevator’s arrival. “We still have plans next Saturday, yes?” Amélie asks, and Lena grins, nods her head, and all but feels her heart pound its way outside of her chest.

“Yep, definitely! Enjoy ya lunch date.”

As soon as the elevator closes on Amélie’s smiling face, Lena downs her remaining half-pint of water in one go.


	3. La Vie est Drôle

The following weeks pass almost too easily.

Gérard’s assassination scares feel like a surreal nightmare that Amélie could have dreamt, already half-forgotten, but for the very real terror it had instilled in her. Gérard himself is doing more than well, promises her that soon they’ll have Talon, that their next big operation will likely shatter the terrorist organisation’s infrastructure, leaving each agent leftover to be carefully picked off and packed up. Amélie does not ask for further details, but she trusts him, trusts _in_ him and the team working with him that she has come to befriend.

Some more than others, in Lena’s case, although Amélie cannot help but admire her and the strange friendship they’ve built. She’s come quite out of nowhere, and while they haven’t been friends for long, it feels as though she’s known her much longer. It has been an awful long time since she’s felt that way about a friend, and Amélie is determined to cherish her.

All in all, Amélie has very little to worry about when she begins her evening ballet lesson. It lasts for one pleasant hour, until she is finally given the opportunity to check her phone for messages, and her heart all but stops at the three inconspicuous voicemails left in waiting.

 

Gérard is awake when she arrives, but it is only a small comfort when she sees his bloodied undershirt and the bruises swelling closed one eye.

He winces when he sees her, as though his pain is suddenly greater now that she’s had to witness it, and does not stop her from taking his hand in hers. Her other goes to his face, her fingertips a hair’s breadth from actually touching his bruised temple, and a noise that brokers on a whimper quiet from her downturned mouth.

“Gérard…”

“It looks a lot worse than it is,” he tells her in English, eyes darting towards Angela, who is finishing some stitching on his other shoulder. Her gaze flits between the pair of them, finally settles on Amélie’s tortured expression, and then she nods her head to back up the point. “This is nothing, really.”

“Nothing,” Amélie repeats, disbelieving. Her hand tightens around his. “Gérard, you look _brutalised_.”

“I assure you,” Angela pipes up, cleaning the fresh stitches, “he’ll be absolutely fine. A few days’ rest will have him back on his feet.”

“Back on his…” Amélie watches her collect her tools, the ruined, bloody shirt that had likely come off her husband’s back, and leave. Her gaze sweeps back around to Gérard, her mouth still agape, thoughts catching in an unending loop. “No,” she tells him, before he can begin to tell her how _next time, we’ll have them_. “No, not again,” dropping back into French, while the door behind her is not-quite-closed.

“Amélie…”

“ _No_.”

He stares at her, gathering his thoughts, searching for an argument to lead with, but Amélie’s conviction is resolute and more than obvious in her expression. She shakes her head slowly, the hard line of her lips wobbling as she takes in, again, the damage that has been inflicted on his body.

“They’re _killing_ you. You’re so obsessed with taking them down, you can’t see what they’re doing to you.”

“It’s a few bruises—”

“I’m not talking about the bruises,” she spits, closing her eyes. She takes a steadying breath before she opens them again. “You’re their target, not Overwatch, not anybody else who goes out there with you. You _know_ this. Why—why are you giving them opportunities?”

Gérard wets his busted bottom lip and sighs. He does not shrug, although he tries to, before the smarting in his shoulder has him cringing back away from the gesture. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, frustration leaking into his voice with the pain. “Hide from them? Let them continue to terrorize innocent people because my life – because our life together – is worth more than theirs?”

He is waiting for an answer, and Amélie can only clench her teeth together, can only bite her tongue to stop herself from shouting, _yes_. It is not fair, but she will not pretend that she cares more for his heroics – his martyrdom – than she does his life, or their future. Seeing this, Gérard’s frown turns unforgiving. He nods his head, though he does not entirely understand, nor will he try to.

“All I want,” Amélie says, eventually, not meeting his gaze, “is for this to stop happening. I know how you feel about this, Gérard, and I’m sorry. I thought I could handle this, but I can’t. Every time you leave for work, I wonder if this will be the day that Talon finally succeeds.”

Gérard is quiet for a long time, though Amélie can see that she has already lost her case – that she’d never really had a case to begin with. His soft face is hard edges, is bruised and battered and unwilling to shift to see her perspective, and she accepts that even though it hurts.

“You do know how I feel about this,” he eventually agrees. “You know I won’t give up.”

For her part, Amélie manages to will the tears back before they can fall. Sniffing delicately, she nods her head and squeezes his hand once before extracting her fingers. _We will talk about this_. “I love you,” she tells him, and he does not stop her when she leaves.  

 

 

Amélie is quiet when Lena meets her in town, and her mood does not improve.

Lena hadn’t meant to overhear her argument with Gérard, and in truth, she isn’t sure she really did. She hadn’t understood a word that was said, and the voices had not been raised, but there had been tension, thick enough to choke on, after Amélie had left Overwatch Headquarters alone. It is the first Lena has seen of her since then, and apparently, she’s still dragging that tension around with her.

They make it through twenty minutes longer of window shopping before Lena sighs, stops them, and turns Amélie to face her. Amélie appears surprised, at first, but the look on Lena’s face is unambiguously pitying, and then she cannot help but feel guilty. How long has she been moping for?

“Not your day, I take it?” Lena asks, eyebrows tipping upwards as though to make light of the situation. Amélie only sighs and shrugs. “We can do something else, if you like? Go somewhere new? Anything you want.”

Amélie smiles at her, but it is waifish, her heart not in it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m not the best company today.”

“You’re the best company every day,” Lena argues, and that draws a stronger, warmer smile, at least. In contrast, Lena’s expression dims. “Are you—are you alright, though? I mean, really. Are you and Gérard okay?” Amélie’s gaze sharpens at the mention of him, and it is far too obvious, suddenly, that Lena had overheard everything. She can do nothing but admit it. “I heard you two the other day. I couldn’t tell what you were saying, but it sounded pretty bad.”

Amélie’s gaze does not falter, and Lena feels herself squirming under it.

“We argued,” she agrees, sighs the words out like confession. “I was upset.”

“Understandably,” Lena adds.

“We’re okay.”

She is not hugely convincing, and Lena’s stomach turns to that hand-shaking, butterfly-fluttering mess again. She casts a look around herself, at the people still shopping, the stores themselves, and the lakeside view just behind them. She takes a step in that direction, spotting a vendor further down, selling hot drinks, and hears Amélie take a step behind her. When she looks up, Amélie is at her side, her gaze on the water.

“I sacrificed so much to come here with him,” Amélie says, her voice so quiet that Lena has to take a step into her side in order to hear it. “I know I’m not allowed to hold those sacrifices above his head, and I won’t, but I didn’t give up all of that… I didn’t move out here to see him be torn apart by terrorists. Annecy seems so _normal_ in comparison to this.”

“Yeah, but normal’s just another word for boring.” Amélie turns to see her, eyebrows arched. “He’s doing a lot of good, though. I know it seems like his only focus is taking down Talon, but it’s so much more than that. He’s taking some very bad people away from the ones they’re hurting, and he’s not doing it for himself, for money. He’s doing it because someone needs to, and no one else would.”

She hates to have to defend it, she hates that she cannot wrap an arm around Amélie’s waist and tell her, _you’re right, I understand_. That same drive in Gérard is something all of Overwatch shares, it’s what brought them together. Amélie does not try to disagree, nor does Lena think she does. She sees the exact moment fresh tears glaze Amélie’s eyes, and she hates that she feels responsible for them, even if she isn’t.

After a choked pause, Amélie manages a short nod.

“I know.” She draws a deep breath, wets her lips, and blinks the tears back before they can fall. She has been doing a lot of that, these days. “Oh, don’t I sound selfish?”

“Oh, love, no,” Lena hurries to say, shaking her head. “No, it’s expected. Really, I’d be more worried if you didn’t care that he was in danger.”

“Hm.”

Lena shrugs and shakes her head, sighs and counts to three before she bites the bullet and takes Amélie’s hand into hers. They’re friends, she reminds herself, they can do this, and yet there’s a strange intimacy that comes with having Amélie’s hand in hers, the soft of her palm pressed flush against her own. After a second of surprise, Amélie strengthens the hold, wrapping her fingers around Lena’s smaller hand and squeezing once.

“It feels a lot easier to be the person who goes out there fighting, than to have to wait at home for news on how it went,” Lena says, craning her neck to meet Amélie’s gaze again. “You’re allowed to not enjoy that, and it doesn’t have to stop you from supporting him.”

“It won’t,” Amélie promises her, and her smile comes sweet and small. Lena feels her stomach turn with it. “Thank you, Lena. It’s—been a while since I’ve had someone to talk to like this. I love Gérard, but it’s difficult to talk about his work to him. I want him to know that I support him, always, but I’m so afraid of what he’s getting into. It all feels so much bigger than him, he’s just one man.”

“I know,” Lena tells her, and she does, truly. “But he’s not doing it alone. Neither are you.”

“That… that means more to me than you think.”

 

Amélie leaves Lena at the lakeside.

They say goodbye over takeout hot chocolate, and go their separate ways home. It is turning dark out already, but Amélie decides to walk. The cold air on her cheeks is a welcome refreshment after her talk with Lena, and she has thoughts to figure out, feelings to overanalyse and then ease before she returns home.

She keeps a slow pace while she chews over her thoughts, though the cold soon gets to her, has her fastening another button in her coat just beneath her chin. The longing for warmth, for her pyjamas and hot food, sends her thoughts towards what she and Gérard will have for dinner. She is half-settled on a dish before she is halfway home, and planning what ingredients she will need to buy to make up for those that they don’t already have.

She does not realise how quiet the street has become until a dark van passes ahead of her, its motor over-loud. There is something unusual about the van that she cannot put her mind to, until it stops a way ahead of her, the engine still running, and her gaze draws to the empty space where a license plate should be fixed.

Her body’s reaction is instinctive, though Amélie tells her clenching stomach that it is paranoid, and quickens her step.

She makes it five paces ahead of the van before she hears the opening door. Seconds later, a gloved hand is muffling her scream, and something pin-prick sharp bites into her neck. She tries to fight it. She kicks and swings until her limbs turn stone-heavy, her mind night-dark.

 

 

It is snowing by the time that dark van stops again.

By the roadside, it has gathered grey and brown from car tyres, and splashes across the sidewalk as the van rolls to a stop. The street is as dark and empty as it had been that night; the opening door punches noise back into the world, and she takes in the stink of wet sidewalk and exhaust fumes for the first time in—

Her mind draws a blank.

How long has it been, she wants to wonder, but a wall appears around her thoughts as easily as a gentle hand, guiding her away. It is not important. She lets the curiosity drop. Outside of the van, she takes her first heeled step – the same heels that she’d come in, the same clothes and coat, all kept safe for her release. A chill tugs at her collar, and her brittle fingers come up of their own accord, falling into habit, to fasten the button beneath her chin.

She stands on the sidewalk as the van door closes again, and watches as it makes its inconspicuous escape. She sees her own breath fog around her face on each exhale, and then she sets off as she was meant to, walking in the direction that she had that night, as though nothing had happened in between.

 

Amélie is picked up outside of a well-lit storefront, trying to buy eggs.

She does not argue with the voice that asks her to stop, nor the hands that guide her into the back of a car. There is not a flicker of fear in her heart as she sits between two suited, unfamiliar agents. They stop again around the back of Overwatch’s Headquarters, and she is transferred like a package from one pair of hands to another, into an elevator, a medbay, behind a curtain where she is carefully stripped and examined.

She does not fight it, when a torch is shone too close to her eyes, and a gentle voice explains that she’s going to take some blood now, is that alright?  

When the door on the opposite side of the room opens, when the curtain is drawn back and a figure appears, and her body is _squeezed_ so tightly that her lungs could almost burst beneath the strength, she barely bats an eyelid. And then his face is in hers, the only thing she can see, and she takes his tear-damp cheeks in both her hands, draws him into the safety of her exposed throat.

They are tugged apart, however gently, a voice telling him _, nothing, nothing, there’s not even a scratch on her_ , and he turns to her for answers, instead. He gives her questions that she stares blankly at, unsure what to do with, and then he gives her more.  In the midst of his excitement, she lays a pale hand on his chest, where his heart beats quick against her palm, and it quiets him, finally, it quiets them both.

“Gérard,” she tells him, “take me home.”

 

Lena arrives early – which is a strange concept for somebody who controls her own time.

Even so, Gérard had said half eight, and it is barely quarter-to the hour. She lingers on the front steps of the apartment building, until the doorman eyeing her suspiciously comes to ask her if she’s got somewhere else to be. She reluctantly gives her name, and he agrees that he’s been told to look out for her, all while holding the heavy glass door open for her to pass inside. She manages to thank him once she’s out of the cold, and pulls the woolly winter hat from her head, fingers threading through messy hair.

She hasn’t been to see Amélie here before, not in the months that they were new, fast friends, and not after her return. In truth, she’s been putting this off; just walking up the building’s steps has given her a stomach ache that she is sure will be with her for the rest of her lifetime.

No less than she feels she deserves, right about now.

The elevator plays music as she travels up, something chirpy and as good as tuneless. Lena bites on her stubby thumb nails until she stops on the right floor, and does not rush her exit. She stands a while making sense of the floor’s layout, and then begins her dreaded approach to the correct room number. The door she stops at is clean and polished, and Lena knocks three times instead of using the buzzer – almost hopes she’ll go unheard.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to see Amélie. It’s not that she feels solely responsible for what’s happened to her, either, and yet… Her heart sinks when the door opens, and Gérard, looking as tired as she’s ever seen him (and she has seen him dodge a rain of bullets, and take even more), invites her inside.

“I’m early,” she whispers once she’s through the door, and lingers on the mat. “I can come back later if—”

“No, no,” Gérard hushes her, pressing a warm hand to her upper arm, and urging her further into the apartment with it. “She’ll be glad to see you. Please, come inside.”

They make it to a living room before Gérard stops Lena, turning towards her to say that he’ll fetch Amélie, and then she’s left to her own devices. She eyes the contemporary décor with nervous approval; it looks beautiful, but of course it would, with a couple like the Lacroixs. It is also spotless, but that is no surprise, either. Gérard’s attendance at work has been understandably lacking these past two weeks, and when they have had word from him, it’s been limited at best. Lena can imagine how he feels, though, not wanting to leave Amélie’s side for another second. He’d have plenty of time for keeping the apartment clean now that his top priority is no longer tracking down Talon agents.

A noise at the door startles her. Lena glances up quickly, and the shock of what she finds there has her face falling before she can stop herself. Amélie looks like a shadow of her former self. There are dark rings around her eyes, and an out-of-character lack of effort with her hairdo. She is still dressed in her nightwear, a gown tied at the waist, and holds herself with a defeated slump. Lena feels ten times heavier having just laid eyes on her.

For a moment, she struggles to find her voice. She tries to start three times, hesitating in place, and almost wishes Gérard would join them. Amélie is the first to make a move. She comes further into the room, stopping just a few paces from Lena, and looks at her as though she isn’t sure what to make of who she’s seeing. Her stare is chillingly blank, and Lena fears her own expression borders on horrified.

“Hiya,” she manages, finally, short and strangled. “H—how are ya?”

It’s not what she wants to start with – there is so much more she wants to say, and her body is tense with it. Seeing this, Amélie’s gaze flickers elsewhere, losing interest. She spots the sofa and goes to it as though she’s in a trance, sitting slowly. After watching her for a moment, Lena takes the seat by her side. There’s heat coming from Amélie, and little else – not the smell of her sweet perfume, and no real _warmth_. It sends a chill down Lena’s spine that she tries and fails to repress.

“So… I’m sorry for taking so long to get here,” Lena says, speaking to her hands, which fidget and scratch at each other in her lap. “Work’s been… you know, and, Gérard was…” She shakes her head and then lifts it. “You look well. Better? I—I wasn’t sure if I was meant to bring something. You know, food?”

“I’m not hungry,” Amélie says, and even her voice sounds wrong, wrong, _awful_.

“Amélie… I’m so sorry.” She turns her attention to her hands again, closes her eyes because if she doesn’t, she will cry. “That night I—I just let you walk home alone. I should’ve gone with you. I thought about it, I just… I didn’t think you’d want company, after what we spoke about. You seemed to want to be alone, and I just—I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking.” Her voice turns tight by the end of it, those tears harder to repress, until she sees Amélie’s face.

It is the first ounce of emotion that she’s seen from her, and it is painfully muted. Amélie tilts her head to one side, too slowly, eyes narrowing. She could look confused if she didn’t also look _calculating_. Finally, she rests a hand on top of Lena’s, and does not seem surprised when Lena jumps from the surprise of it. Lena’s mouth half opens, a _what?_ almost on its way out, until she notices the way in which a smile both lifts at the corners of Amélie’s mouth, and then dissipates again within seconds.

“Foolish girl,” she coos, and Lena’s arm hair stands on end. “You could never stop this from happening.”

 

Lena sees Gérard again only once she’s leaving.

He stands with her by the door, through the obligatory moment where she is unsure if she should shake his hand or hug him. On second thought, she figures he could use the hug, and pulls him in quickly and blushing. For his part, Gérard responds after only a moment of shock, and squeezes her too-tightly the way she imagines he would if he had a smaller sister.

“Thank you for coming,” he tells her, and Lena shrugs and shakes her head, because _of course_. “She spoke to you?”

“A bit,” she nods, and tries to keep from frowning, however successfully. “You know, she said something earlier…” She drawls off at the world-weary look on his face, and Lena tucks that sentence away; he really doesn’t need more stress. “She’s quiet,” she says, instead, and shares a mournful look with Gérard.

“I think she’s coming around.”

“She still hasn’t said anything about— what happened?”

“Nothing. I’m hoping that will change.”

Lena musters a smile that she is not feeling. “Of course it will,” she says, that old determination sparking through. “The important thing is that she’s back, right? Everything else can wait. Just… take care of yourself, love. Let me know if you ever need anything.”

Gérard accepts the offer with a smile, and hugs her again before she leaves. He closes the door on her thinking of what he will make Amélie for dinner. She’s had little appetite since she returned, but she has not complained; he could probably burn her favourite dish and she would eat it, one forkful after another, as though she couldn’t taste a thing.

The thought is unsettling. He pushes it from his mind as though everything else could be that simple.

When he returns to the living area, Amélie has left the couch and returned to their bedroom; the door has been closed behind her, and so Gérard does not pursue her. He turns to the kitchen, instead, makes their dinner, and later eats it with the television on to make up for the silence. Afterwards, they watch a movie together, Amélie sitting upright at one end of the sofa, and he lying across what is left of it.

He goes to bed before her, though that is not unusual for these last two weeks. He often wakes to find her asleep on the couch, and he respects her wish for that distance – does not ask her if she will be coming to bed before he leaves her watching the rerun of an old sitcom.

As soon as the bedroom door clicks closed behind him, Amélie reaches for the television remote. She mutes the volume and continues to watch for another half hour. After turning the television off, she cleans away their drinking glasses, and washes what has been left in the sink. The water is scalding hot, leaves her hands red and sore; Amélie stands with them submerged for several minutes after she’s done. She waits for the water to cool, for the feeling to pass, and then dries herself off on a towel.

In the dim of the kitchen, Amélie closes her eyes and draws a long breath. She presses up onto tip toes, stretches out both legs, and then her arms above her – stretches until it aches. Above the counters, a clock ticks the seconds up to midnight, and she turns off the lights, checks that the front door is locked as she would every other night.

Then she takes a knife to bed.

 

He’s waiting for her, once she arrives.

He takes one look at her bloodied, shaking hands, and smiles. It is so peculiar, how steady her pulse is as he ushers her towards the chair. Her hands stop shaking once her wrists are secured, her ankles next, the straps so tight that she feels her skin bulge around either side of them. She wonders, with all the curiosity that she has left, if something will set in later; she wonders if she’ll feel anything at all, in a way that would have made sense to her, before.

The chair grows warm before that first shock – that is how she knows to expect it – and then electricity thrums beneath her skin as though it means to tear it off. After that, she wonders very little at all.

 

Once they’re done with her, she is given a new uniform. She admires it in a mirror that captures her from head to toe, and he behind her, a hand at her shoulder, the smile that she remembers being afraid of when she had first seen it, although she cannot recall why.

“You’re ready,” he tells her, and she nods her head and meets his smile.

How funny, that a mere few weeks ago, she had feared this – her own perfection, for that is what he’s made her, and she can _feel_ it cold beneath her flesh, and powerful. She flexes an arm, tilts her chin up, and admires the way that her skin glints in new ways, wherever the dim lamplight hits it. She feels her old self like a distant dream, a panicky woman who she might have once passed in the street, eyes-wide with the fear of losing someone she’d never needed. She laughs for how changed she is, how horrified they all would be if they saw her.

She is no longer Amélie Lacroix; she is Half Life. She is Widowmaker.

Oh, la vie _est si drôle_.


	4. Evening Spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Five Years Later]

Lena Oxton is just one shadow among many atop the clock tower that night.

The sky is streetlamp-bright and thick with clouds. Lena sticks to one side of the tower’s steeple, her back to the wet brick, wearing a hood that’s just as dark as the night that she’s trying to blend in with. Her body is posed as still as one of the tower’s statues, but her eyes are quick and focused on the street below. She cuts a look at her wristwatch, checks that she is running on time – this woman who lives both within and without it – and then lowers her attention once more.

Directly beneath her, a car pulls up outside a jeweler’s, and Lena sinks further back into the wall. She watches three people exit via the back doors, leaving the driver and a running engine, and arm themselves with enough iron to get through the security gate and the front window. Lena reaches for the phone tucked inside her belt, turns off the police radio transmission, and pulls the earphones out of both ears while the figures below her make their first attempt on the security lock.

Tucking away her phone, she drops down onto the street.

 

She leaves the perps handcuffed to the front gate, in the end. It’s all that she can do, without winding up in a similar cell.

Lena is back on her tower top before the sirens and flashing lights arrive, high enough to watch bemused officers pull four people to their feet and into the backs of a van. It was a risk, doing this for the third time this week, but it helps, somehow, even if all she has anymore is illegally intercepted police transmissions.

That’s a small detail to look over, though, right? What’s it matter how she caught armed robbers, if in the end she caught them?

Lena watches the van drive away, lights still flashing, and waits for the moment of satisfaction. She waits until the lights have disappeared, until the city below her is quiet again, and the chill in the air seeps its way through her hoodie. When was the last time this felt _good_ , she wonders? When was the last time she took down more than a petty criminal? She’d been doing so much good at Overwatch, even in the end, even through that _mess_.

For a second, her bitter indignation is powerful enough to stroke at the places in her ego that she hasn’t been able to reach in a long while. Overwatch disbanding had been a mistake, and that’s more than evident, these days, than it had been at the time. A splash of cold water against her cheek is enough to shake her thoughts, and the heroism slumps out of her as quickly as the rain falls.

She turns her back on the street, jumps three rooftops in as many seconds, and would be on her way home if not for the sudden and near-blinding dot of red that slides across her vision. Her initial reaction is confusion, and then her eyes catch on the red-rain trail, a beam of light so powerful it could only have come from a focused laser. More accurately, a laser mounted on the other end of a sniper’s scope.

She panics quickly enough for the first bullet to graze her hood, and nothing more. It bounces off an assortment of roof tiles, making three sharp _pings_ before Lena can do more than duck behind a shallow wall. She is soaked through by the time she works up enough nerve to poke her head above the wall, searching for the red in the rain; her eyes glint with a spark of something in the building opposite her, and she ducks down low again in time to hear another bullet skim the stone above her head.

It would be so like _her_ to find her here. Lena is almost disappointed in herself for not having expected this again, so soon. She glances once more at her watch, the date illuminated there, and narrows her eyes in contemplation. It hasn’t been long enough for her to test her running theory; the next bullet that hits her might do a little more than graze her clothes. She could play this safe – probably should, too, but she is restless from the attempted robbery.

At least, with this, she might actually do some real good.

Before another bullet is cracked in her direction, Lena activates her charged power and throws herself over the wall that she’s been ducking behind. She lands a second later, on a window ledge from the opposite building, and makes her next jump just quickly enough to miss the hail of bullets that rains down on her from above. She takes momentary shelter in the alcove of a deep-set window, catches her breath, and grins before she sets off again.

This time, she aims a little higher, finds the open window and the sniper’s perch, and kicks her way through into an empty office before the person meeting her shoe can do little more than throw her vanishing body to one side. Lena lands with a roll, ducking behind a desk, but she’s left wet trails from the rain, and she is at a disadvantage in the dark. The end of an automatic rifle cracks against her jaw before she can make another jump, to the opposite end of the office, this time, and with both pistols at the ready.

Behind her, footsteps track back and forth by the windowed wall, and Lena uses the brief pause in their combat to take in her surroundings. She’s perched between a desk and a wall, with a room full of potential cover, but so far only one open exit. Behind her, she notices the door, and holds her breath while trying the handle. It’s no surprise when it turns out to be locked. She releases the handle with a muted sigh, and the resulting rattle draws a sharp end to the footsteps.

“Well, well,” a voice croons, and Lena resists the urge to glance over the edge of her hiding spot. It is familiar, the way in which Amélie’s voice can sound so cold, and yet her clenching stomach reacts all the same. “It seems I’ve finally captured you. The only way you’ll get out of here is through these windows.”

A small, barely-there smile turns at Lena’s lips. “Oh, I wasn’t trying to _escape_ , love.” She flicks the safety off her pistols, and takes a time-charged leap over the desk, sending a spiral of bullets out from both hands. “Just making sure we weren’t gunna get interrupted!”

She thinks she lands a few hits before she rolls behind a partitioning wall, but she’s taken some, as well. Her hoodie is shredded in several places, but her armoured jumpsuit is beneath it, keeping her warm against the chill of the wet fabric. “That all you got? I was expecting a proper reunion.”

“Come closer,” Widowmaker hisses, far too close already, “and I’ll let you kiss my cheeks.”

“Oh, yeah? And which cheeks would those be?”

She isn’t spared an answer; Widowmaker rounds the partitioning wall with her automatic rifle, and Lena is left to scurry back under cover, firing as she zips backwards around the office. She lands again behind a filing cabinet, pistol held aloft by her face, ready to take a quick aim. Her gaze darts around for a shadow that she can work with, but what limited light is coming in from the windows is little good against Widowmaker’s tactical visor.

“Where are you hiding?” Widowmaker croons, her footsteps taking her around the office, no doubt checking every corner. “Are you afraid, Lena? Shall we play a game?” She rounds the corner of a filing cabinet, and then lingers there a moment, frowning at the imprint of a wet shoulder against the metal. Lena was here. Quieting her footsteps, she prowls towards the nearest partitioning wall. “Oh, _Marco_?”

It’s the squelch of a wet shoe behind her that has Widowmaker turning to the sight of two pistols, aimed directly for her chest.

“Polo!” The bullets are released with a giddy laugh, as Lena chases Widowmaker around the partitioning wall and then a desk. “Looking for me? Well, here I am! What’s wrong, Amélie? Don’t tell me you don’t know what to do with me now that I’m here.”

It slips out before she can help it, before she can remind herself that this _isn’t_ Amélie, not really – not how she was, and definitely not how Lena thinks she should be. She realises her mistake too late, and Widowmaker snatches back the advantage with a feral snarl. Unfurling from behind the desk that she had been sheltering behind, she lunges a hand forward, and Lena can only watch in delayed dismay as a grappling hook is sent towards her middle.

It finds purchase in her soft stomach, closes around her hoodie, and drags her in.

Widowmaker’s fist is waiting for her once she’s close enough, and the pistols are slapped out of her hands. They land too far away for Lena to reach, and her power has not yet regained its charge. Her attention is brought into unchallenged focus when a fist closes around her throat. The visor has drawn back from Widowmaker’s face, by now, and Lena shivers in her damp clothes as she’s brought eye-to-eye with her.

“Don’t call me that,” she’s told, Widowmaker’s voice coming so quietly that the sound of the rain is almost overbearing. She can do nothing but whimper as the grappling hook releases her stomach, and steels herself, awaiting a final blow. When she doesn’t so much as cringe away from that expected hit, Widowmaker’s gaze turns strangely appeased. She releases her throat with a harsh shove, and Lena lands on one of her own guns as she hits the floor.

“Pick up your weapon,” she’s told. “I want to fight.”

Lena struggles to her feet with one hand at her stomach, the other holding her rescued pistol. She feels suddenly sick with nerves, and not even the gentle hum of power at her chest – the reassurance that she is recharged and ready – is enough to settle her. Meeting Widowmaker’s gaze, she releases the pistol from her fingers. Widowmaker follows its fall, the sound of it landing as loud as a nail sliding into a coffin lid; her gaze snaps back up to Lena as though to ask her _why_?

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t wanna fight you.”

Widowmaker’s eyes narrow, and then relax. She does not lower her rifle. “I don’t believe you.”

“Frankly,” Lena shrugs, “I don’t give a toss.”

A tense silence follows, in which Widowmaker both waits for Lena to flicker out of time, and loses her own patience with her. She makes a show of reloading her rifle, the noise aggressive in the near-quiet, and aims it directly towards Lena’s face. “Pick it _up_.”

Lena contemplates what could happen if she does not listen, and then she shakes her head. _In for a penny_. “No,” again, stronger this time, with conviction. “I don’t want to.”

For a split second, Lena thinks that Widowmaker will lose her temper. She hasn’t seen it happen, yet – not properly, at least. It would require Amélie to feel anything at all, though Lena’s been working on that, slow as it’s been, each step forward negated by another three back. She won’t give up. She leaves her pistols on the floor and she widens her unguarded arms, shows Widowmaker the perfect, unobstructed target, and shrugs.

If anyone’s ever died trying to prove a point like this, it would be her, wouldn’t it? Yet the bullet does not come, and the reason why lodges hope so thick inside Lena’s throat that she cannot manage another smart comment before Widowmaker throws her rifle down to her feet. She’s never come this far before.

“ _Fine_ ,” Widowmaker grits, with more irritation than she should be able to feel, and Lena braces herself for what happens next.

She’ll blame it on shock, if anyone asks, but when Widowmaker comes charging towards her, Lena sees the perfect opportunity to _not be there_ and does not take it. She braces herself for the impact, and she is ready when Widowmaker is upon her, elbows and fists, and a knee to her stomach. Lena manages to push off the most of it, blocking rather than attacking, until a punch lands in her cheek and she boxes Widowmaker one back in return. She’s got a clear advantage, up close like this, and she lands several punches to Widowmaker’s guts before she’s kicked one long leg’s length away.

Lena rolls out of her fall, back onto her hands and knees, and looks up in time to see Widowmaker square her gait. Even in the dark, the blueish tinge of her smiling lips is there first place that Lena’s gaze lands. It isn’t right that she can still find her so _pretty_ after she’s almost had her dinner beaten back out of her.

“You’re getting slow,” Widowmaker titters down at her, rubbing the backs of her knuckles. She is not used to a bare fist fight, and yet she finds it strangely pleasing; she likes especially the thought of her skin meeting Lena’s plump pink cheek. She feels genuine pleasure, maybe even excitement, weak beneath her skin like static electricity; it has all of her little hairs standing on end. “What’s the matter, Lena? Don’t tell me you don’t want to hit me back.”

Pushing herself up with a grunt, Lena hops twice towards Widowmaker, and then behind her back. “Didn’t say anything about that,” she snaps, kicking Widowmaker’s feet out from under her, but Amélie’s arms were always longer – she reaches Lena by the ankle and drags her down with her. Lena lands on her shoulder, and Widowmaker does not hesitate to land a few punches to get her on her back.

With Lena’s power charging, Widowmaker is given the upper hand, and she takes it, pinning Lena in place beneath her with a hard shove at her shoulders. She’s about to deliver another blow when she feels it – that prickle of _something_ beneath her skin; the way her heart shudders strangely inside her chest. Her body _clenches_ with it, tight like a spring waiting to recoil, and she has the sudden urge to see it happen.

She is overwhelmed by the need to feel, to test this new reach, to stretch until she finds _real_ excitement – she thinks she remembers how it used to feel, the way her heart could beat with it. If she focuses hard enough, she’s sure she’ll find that feeling again, and Lena trapped beneath her would be such a fitting image to bring it all back.

Smiling, she looms in close enough to feel Lena’s panting breath on her chin, and _tut-tuts_ at the feeble push against her arms. She brings a hand to Lena’s neck, the pressure slight enough to promise at the damage she could do, if she felt like it. Any other time, she just might have finished her job, but she’s too close—she’s on the tail feathers of a breakthrough, and she is desperate to feel it coursing through her veins, the way that her blood used to.

Beneath her, Lena swallows against the hand at her throat.

There is something odd about this woman – something different, something that feels an awful lot like a naked spark in a room full of gas. Widowmaker isn’t sure what to make of her, and yet there is _something_ that brings them together like this, the way it just doesn’t happen with the others. There is something in Lena that speaks to a part of herself that she’s almost forgotten, that she worries, when she has the ability to worry at all, what would happen if she ever uncovered it.

When her face dips in low towards her, Lena’s heart gives a stuttering increase. Widowmaker watches her response with a pleased hum, and takes the time in her momentary advantage to study Lena’s face. She is pink in the cheeks and peculiarly bare of freckles, but there is another difference, too. Widowmaker’s eyes catch on the two new rings in Lena’s ear, and a hum comes again, less satisfied now.

“You’ve been away,” she says, the tip of her finger flicking at the new piercings, and Lena struggles not to wince. Widowmaker dips her head lower, her nose almost touching Lena’s exposed throat. She gives a derogatory sniff and then pulls away again. “A home visit? The stench of it is all over you.”

Lena makes a breathy, indignant noise. “Miss me, did you?”

Their gazes meet, and Widowmaker feels it again, the pull – that _urge_. She as good as sees it all over Lena’s face, and wonders if she has any idea what she does to her. She thinks, probably, but how? Her body is no longer tense beneath her, just as there is no longer fear in her gaze. There’s a reason why Lena keeps coming back like this, the way nobody else has, and it bites at Widowmaker beneath the skin in her quest to uncover why.

(There is a reason, in turn, for why _she_ continues to seek out the fight in Lena. The prospect of finding answers to that gaping blank fills her with no small amount of unease.)

“Not half as much as you missed me, it seems.”

Lena’s cheeks turn warm and red; even through her wet clothes, heat burns up from beneath her, so hot that Widowmaker almost remembers what it was like to sweat.

“Why am I still alive?” Lena whispers, so quietly that she might as well have not asked at all. “I’ve seen you fight before. Your kills are quick, you’re trained for this, aren’t you? You could have taken me out with one bullet a moment ago, and you didn’t. It’s happening, isn’t it? You’re sick of it – with what’s happened, what they’re doing to you—”

“They don’t do anything to me that I don’t want.”

“Really?” Lena presses, smiling like she already has her answer, and it is an awful one even if it gives her hope. “What are you doing, then? If you were following their orders, I’d probably be dead already – you’d have killed me months ago, right?”

“Perhaps I should have,” Widowmaker frowns, but Lena shakes her head.

“You don’t want to do that. It’s okay, Amélie—”

The pressure around her throat is suddenly increased, but Lena does not fight it. She works a hand free, holding Widowmaker’s gaze as she presses her palm to her chest. The slowed heartbeat there draws a muted sigh from Lena’s strangled throat, but she does not move, even when her fingers touch skin corpse-cold.

“I know you can feel this,” she struggles to get out, and Widowmaker’s heart gives its first strong pulse against her palm.

Above her, Widowmaker’s eyes are large and bright; her gaze shifts towards Lena’s wrist, and then back to her face again. There is an odd pressure in her chest, almost a cramp; she thinks her heart will beat again, seconds quicker than it is supposed to, and the anticipation is awful the longer that it drags out.

Finally, no longer content to wait, she changes tactics. She will provoke a reaction out of her weak heart until it responds. Before Lena can register the new closeness between them, Widowmaker’s lips are covering her own, unpleasantly cold. Lena holds her breath, eyes wide and body tense. She does not respond, but Widowmaker’s body tremors above her before she pulls away.

She’s breathing almost as though she’s out of breath, and Lena feels her heart again – another strong pound against her hand. When Widowmaker leans down this time, Lena grasps her by the back of the neck to keep her close. She kisses messily, with tongue and teeth, her hand slowly lifting from around Lena’s throat to grasp at her wet hoodie.

The feeling is indescribable, as Lena shifts beneath her, as she welcomes her tongue into her mouth and claims her lips as thoroughly as Widowmaker is sure she’s ever been claimed. There is something scorching about it, the way it burns beneath her skin, the way her heart beats _again, again_ and it’s coming back—something is returning, something thick and strange and terrifying, and Widowmaker grasps for it with both hands, as she grasps for Lena.

It comes to a dizzying peak, and Widowmaker draws herself away before it can end, while there is still time to revel in the dizziness of it. She tips her head back and closes her eyes and moans at the shiver that carries through her body. Maybe there is still hope for her, she thinks, maybe there’s a chance—

She is drawn back into reality with a hand against her cheek, blisteringly hot and unsteady. Lena is watching her with pool-like eyes, watery and deep, and for a moment all Widowmaker can do is watch her back. Is this it, she wonders? Is this why fate brought them together – is this why Lena’s hazy blue silhouette stalks her about the city, week after week? Is this how she gets it back?

Her relief is snagged by a dark thought. She lays a hand to Lena’s cheek and thinks, if she needs to consume this flighty woman to get her feeling back, she will.

Lena feels the change in the air with a temperature drop, and suddenly Widowmaker’s weight above her is no longer a comfort. She frowns up at narrowed, smiling eyes and feels her stomach drop. _No, no_ , she thinks. _We got so far!_ In a half-terrified panic, she shoves at Widowmaker’s chest and bolts before she is captured again.

She’s at the window in one smooth leap, pistols in both hands, and she tucks them away while Widowmaker pushes herself up onto her knees. She is still smiling in that focused yet detached way that sends another shiver down Lena’s spine. She makes her escape quietly, out of the window and into the rain, and she does not look back.

Widowmaker watches her go. Still kneeling, she tastes her lips and laughs.

 

She is late to return, that night, and it is noticed.

He’s waiting for her in the lab, and she does not meet his gaze as he takes in the general disarray of her armour. His eyes linger in particular on one cheek, where the imprint of Lena’s fist is still smarting against her gums, and then he turns his back. His footsteps are sharp and steady on the tiled floor, and she keeps him in her peripheral. She cannot see his hands, but the distinct sound of metallic instruments against a tray chills her body in a way that she has not felt before.

At the opposite end of the room, a door opens, and a tall, bookish man enters. He takes one look at Widowmaker, at his boss, and quickens his pace to a nervous almost-jog. Dr. Roberts is rounded on before he can utter a syllable. A key is placed inside his hand, and his words stutter in his throat as he thinks about objecting. A firm glance from his boss soon ends that internal debate.

“Yes, sir. Can you ask her to sit down?”

His boss turns on Roberts with a bemused smile. “Ask her yourself, she’s harmless.”

Dr. Roberts does not sway.

For a half a second, he’s sure his request will be denied. There’s a smile at the corner of his boss’ lips, but he indulges – sweeps a theatrical hand out towards the chair as though to welcome Widowmaker a seat. She eyes it with uncertain reluctance, and his arm falls back against his side.

“Now, now,” he warns her, and turns briefly to Dr. Roberts. “You see why this is necessary, don’t you?” He ignores Roberts’ muffled agreement, and takes a further step towards Widowmaker, until they are face-to-face. With her boots on, she has the advantage in height, but he does not crane his neck to meet her gaze.

“Sit down,” he tells her, and Widowmaker waits one full, shocking second before acquiescing.

The delay, however minute, has him rotating so that she is no longer in his sight. He plays with his cufflinks to the sounds of her straps being fastened, and turns around in time to spy Dr. Roberts inserting the key within the control panel. He gives a firm nod, and the key is turned, power thrumming through to the chair. He stands to watch until the whites of her eyes are visible.

“Up the voltage this time, Roberts,” he says, straightening his cuffs. “She can handle it.”

“Sir, this is the second time this month. If we keep up this frequency, there’s no guarantee that she won’t—”

“ _Roberts_.”

He thinks about protesting again, and then he nods his head.

“Yes, sir. I’ll inform you once we’re finished here.”

In the chair between them, straining at the wrists, panic fills Amélie’s heart until it slows, dispossessed. She feels herself going out like an ember. 


	5. L’Appel du Vide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say a quick thanks for sticking with this through my sparse updates – I’ve been under the weather, but the break has given me a real opportunity to think about where I’m taking this fic and correct some inconsistencies in my plan, so all for the best, I think. 
> 
> Also, a much bigger thank you to everybody reading, leaving kudos, comments, and of course helping me with the beta work/planning/translations. You’re overwhelming me in the best way, and it’s the biggest motivator to write. Your support is a huge help!

He comes to her late one night, the way that he often does.

She’s no longer welcome at the table where he hands out their assignments like sweets, the biggest going to the one who he deems gave the best performance, the scraps scattered among the rest like loose skittles. He has not told her why, and she does not ask. She sees the repulsion in the faces of those tethered to her in partnership; her gaze may be glassy but her improved sight catches all.

He comes as she’s brushing her hair, and makes a short noise of protest when she attempts to stop and face him. Seated at the vanity table, she can just catch his gaze in the mirror before he comes to stand directly behind her shoulder. He does not look displeased, and so she continues the rhythmic movement, teasing the brush slowly through her loosened ponytail until every tangle is gently unwound.

The sound of a paper file hitting the vanity draws her attention down to her latest assignment. She sets down her brush to open it, and does not shiver when his fingers tease through her hair, drawing it back over her shoulder for his hands to tangle. One of his fingers catches on a knot, snags until a single strand snaps away in his hand, over-loud in the silence.

She turns another page in the file, undisturbed.

“I assume I don’t have to stress the importance of this,” he tells her as her narrowed eyes fall to a loose photograph. She plucks it out from behind the paper clip securing it in place, and holds it up to better see. It’s a few years old, she thinks, lingering on the two small, piercing-less ears. “If you can’t complete this mission, I’ll have one of the others do it, and something tells me they won’t be nearly so— tidy.”

The threat lingers like a chill at the back of her neck, his hands dropping her hair only to let it sweep back into place. In the mirror, she catches his figure lowering, his chest coming into view and then his face, so close that he could place his chin on her shoulder, were he so inclined.

“Do you understand?”

At equal level, she meets his gaze.

“Oui.”

 

He does not linger long, after that, but makes his retreat while she shifts her gaze back towards the photograph in her hand. She knows it well; it’s part of a larger shot, the whole team present, or at least what is left of them. It’s the same one that was used whenever Overwatch was in the news. It is years old, and it shows, yet very little has changed between the photograph in her hand and its subject.

Nostalgia is nothing but a flicker, compared to other emotions. It does not trickle through the barrier surrounding her, it is not like muffled music on the other side of a wall. It’s an ache in her bones, a need to stand, to pace, to wander. She is restless with it, this feeling that isn’t really feeling, desperate for more and yet unwilling to let it slip – let it show.

She knows what will happen, if they suspect. She keeps it tucked inside her like a secret, lets it fill the void that they left of her, and vows that they will not take it from her again.

 

Lena assumes that they’ll always meet like this; on a rooftop at night, while the rest of the city sleeps beneath them, unaware of the fight until passing police sirens rouse them from their beds.

Widowmaker is a bright red dot in a window alcove, and Lena ducks behind an old, likely unused chimney before a bullet can hit. She clenches her teeth, waits to hear it ricocheting off the bricks and slates, just missing her, and yet nothing comes. She’s a fool to poke her head back out, and yet she does it anyway, finding the red line through the air that leads her back to Widowmaker’s perch.

She waits again for a bullet, is prepared to leap back in time before she’s shot through the face, and yet the laser point does not move from the rooftop just a foot ahead of where she’s standing. Lena frowns, uncertain, and studies the building that the laser is coming from.

It looks like an abandoned factory, a good spot for Widowmaker’s hide out, and an even better spot for their inevitable fighting, and yet… Her eyes dart back to the laser point, the way it moves a fraction in each direction that tells her somebody is certainly holding the automatic rifle inside that window, but Lena has her doubts on who.

Widowmaker would have shot by now, surely, unless—

It’s too much to hope for, that she’s gained the upper hand on her conditioning so soon after their last round. Despite herself, Lena does hope, even as she worries what will be left of Widowmaker through her deteriorating condition. She wonders yet, what will be left of _Amélie_ , if indeed there’s anything left of her at all.

Still, the little red laser point remains fixed in place, calling Lena out, goading her into what she’s sure would be a trap, if she were silly enough to walk right into it. She weighs up her options. She’s definitely made worse decisions before. Treading lightly, she uncovers herself from the chimney, standing in plain view of the laser point, and waits. As though exhausted with her behavior, the light blinks off and on again once, urgent, irritated, and Lena’s lips quirk before she can stop them.

Seems she’s running late for _something_ , she figures, and gives a charged leap over the edge of the rooftop.

 

She lands again several storeys down, and looks up to check that the laser point has disappeared, which it has. At the factory door, she tests the lock and then looks for a window. It does not smash quietly, and Lena winces and holds her breath, waiting for any indication that she’s been detected. The part of town they’re in is as run down as it gets in this area, and Lena is thankful for it as she slips inside.

Shattered glass crunches beneath her feet. While Lena can see very little but shadows, she has the distinct feeling of being watched. It is unnerving, and makes her wonder again whether or not she should be doing this. If it’s Widowmaker waiting for her up here, what will this meeting entail? If it’s not Widowmaker… Lena’s gut clenches at the thought. She’s frowning and feeling her way up a staircase when a light clicks on, on the floor above her.

Lena freezes mid-step, her body tense and partially ducking, but there’s no attack. She relaxes about as much as she will allow herself to, and takes another step while trying to see into the one dimly illuminated room above her. The light is not bright, barely touches the staircase, and yet as Lena steps into it, she feels all the more vulnerable.

More so, when a figure emerges from the other end of the room.

Widowmaker stops before she’s taken more than three steps. She is not carrying her rifle, as though she already knows that Lena is not a threat, and yet a chill runs up Lena’s spine regardless. She freezes where she stands, and for a moment they’re in silent stalemate, waiting for the other to make a move.

“What are you doing here?” Lena asks. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

Lena nods her head – believes her.

Across from her, Widowmaker tilts her head as though in consideration. It would be so easy to disarm Lena again, to fight her until she is tired and bound, or else, even better, unconscious. She has a theory that she could attend every meeting with Lena like this, unarmed and vulnerable, and still not receive a grievous injury. She doesn’t understand why Lena won’t hurt her, but that doesn’t mean that she is unwilling to manipulate it to further her advantage.

Still, it takes ample effort not to pounce – not to launch a toxic mine towards Lena’s face, or else wrap her grappling hook around her delicate neck and— It sets her teeth on edge, makes them ache as though they’re shifting inside of her soft gums. Insubordination is not treated kindly, and Widowmaker would know more than most in her team.

_Still_.

Even here, especially here, with Lena but a few feet ahead of her, the need to grasp at her – to tear the feeling out of her, or however else she must do it – is almost as euphoric as it is overwhelming. She feels her blood warm considerably with excitement that she has long struggled to repress; to let it go unchecked, unguarded, is dizzying in its relief.

She is so close, she feels it every time she looks Lena in the eye, as though she is standing at a dizzying height with her toes to the edge of a sheer drop. Lena is that first step forward, the empty air, the fall – she is self-sabotage and disobedience and the smell of her own electrified flesh. She’s the taste of copper at the back of her throat.

She wonders if Lena has any idea what power she holds, to intrigue her, to capture her attention the way a fly draws a spider out of a crack at that first rustle in its web. Seeing her, the look of uncertainty on her face as she holds the perfect silence, Widowmaker can only assume not.

“So,” Lena says, her voice as flighty as the rest of her body; she’s as good as bouncing on her toes, waiting to flee. Her gaze flickers down to Widowmaker’s empty hands, and then back up to her unmoving face. If anything, the confusion only heightens Lena’s distress. “We’re not fighting.”

She doesn’t pose it as a question, and so Widowmaker does not answer.

Instead, she steps forward and tries to contain her smile when Lena almost takes a counter step back. The room they’re in is not large, but many of the partitioning walls have been partially removed, or else kicked in. If Lena wanted to run, she’d have plenty of opportunity in direction, and yet she stands perfectly still as Widowmaker nears. She stops again when they’re a step apart, and Lena visibly relaxes.

This close, Widowmaker has to ask herself why she’s doing this. His orders run through her mind like a wire – sharp, cutting – but the ache dulls the longer that she stands like this, ignoring her assignment. She could still go through with it, and the instant gratification of a job completed would likely tide her over for a day or two. But how can she, when Lena has something far more precious to her than her life?

Clenching and unclenching her hands, Lena swallows the lump forming in her throat and squints. She does not know what to expect, and while the anticipation eats at her, she fears what will happen when Widowmaker ultimately decides what they’re doing. She seems as lost as Lena’s ever seen her, though even that feels like too much of a stretch. Indecision is obvious in the lines on her forehead; that she hasn’t attacked Lena already is her only hope that this encounter may go differently.

“Amélie,” she tries, her voice quiet, and that draws a sudden focus into Widowmaker’s gaze.

“I’m not her,” comes instant, stubborn, though where usually Widowmaker would take pleasure in Lena’s pain upon hearing those words, now they seem hollow. She says them because that’s all she can say, almost impatient to get this part of their interaction over with. If nothing else, it strengthens Lena’s reserve.

“Yes you are, even like this.” She steps forward until they’re face-to-face, pushes into life-threatening territory, and Widowmaker does nothing but blink down at her. “You’ve always been her. That doesn’t change, it won’t, no matter what they do to you. Don’t you feel it—?”

“I don’t feel,” Widowmaker interrupts her, and her next words are almost puppeteered right out of her mouth, as though it’s not really her voice that is saying them. “Things don’t feel.”

Anger burns through Lena, turning her cheeks pink. “You’re not a _thing_.”

There is a pause in which Widowmaker tilts her head gently to one side, considering her, the statement, or else the unlikelihood of there being any truth to it at all. She is chillingly composed, until she isn’t – until her expression cracks with the quietest longing that Lena has ever seen, and her voice comes as nothing more than a whisper.

“Show me.”

So she does.

Lena isn’t sure if this is exactly what Widowmaker had in mind, but there is no surprise in the lips that move against her own, soft and cool. She is pliant, unresisting, as Lena presses tender kiss after kiss, letting her adjust. She kisses her until Widowmaker’s lips feel warm against her own – until that warmth sparks movement in her, finally, like a serpent soaking in energy from the sun. Her hands are nervous at Lena’s shoulders, uncertain, not quite shaking and yet not daring to touch her with more than just her fingertips.

Lena is soft and bright, and something about that pulls shame into what Widowmaker is doing, just not enough to make her stop. Lena is like a fresh breath on her lips, filling her, feeding her, and she is gluttonous with feeling. Her hands find real purchase in strong shoulders, fingers digging in, holding tight, holding Lena _still_. Even here, with Lena’s hands firm on her hips, she is terrified of her flitting out of existence as though she’d never been there in the first place.

She is terrified of her own tentative, cresting emotions doing the same, in Lena’s absence.

There’s comfort, too, in the way that their lips slant together. Kissing is simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar – nostalgic – but she is not doing this for the enjoyment of it, as enjoyable as it is. Each point of contact draws the warmth back out of her, stirs the blood through her veins until she thinks it could rush again. It pricks up every little hair on her arms, by the nape of her neck, but it is _not enough_.

Lena is gentle and willing against her mouth, and Widowmaker opens her eyes long enough to watch her flinch when she bites into her bottom lip. She deepens the kiss, and Lena allows it, encourages it with the press of her tongue teasing along Widowmaker’s.

Not a thing, Lena had said, and she certainly does not feel it.

She feels _alive_.

Her body tingles with it, her head dizzies, thoughts swirl. She gasps for breath and Lena’s mouth moves to her neck, and _that_ is good – that is better. Head uplifted, she cups a hand to Lena’s nape and holds her in place, eyes closed and a soft moan directed towards the dilapidated roof fixtures.

At the height of her pleasure, Widowmaker’s emotions are no longer the glaze from a fire that she can feel from a distance. She is closer to feeling now than she can remember ever being; she holds both hands out to it in askance, in offering, and it sets her body aflame.

It begins with a twinge, a subtle nudge against her chest that says perhaps something is not right. She ignores it. Lena’s teeth scrape against her throat, her lips suckling at her pulse point, drawing a pressure that has Widowmaker gasping – until it burns. She opens her eyes to the ceiling, her vision glazed, and can do nothing but suck in a breath at the pain that shoots along her back, straight towards her heart.

It’s different. It’s _too much_ – not the kind of feeling that she was hoping to draw out, and not one that she wants. Panic comes next, and she shoves at Lena’s shoulders until she can stagger drunkenly back. Her stomach clenches as she goes, an arm out to steady herself, the other pressing tight to the pressure building inside her chest.

“Amélie, what’s—?”

Widowmaker attempts to push her away again, but her body curls involuntarily into itself. She presses a hand against her throbbing head and feels herself cold and damp, realises then that she’s _perspiring_ all over. “What—” She wipes the same hand along her neck until it comes back wet, and turns on Lena, horrified. “What have you done to me?”

“No, _nothing_ ,” Lena squeaks, stepping forward as Widowmaker lowers into herself some more, one hand on her thigh for support. “I haven’t done anything. What’s happening? I-I don’t understand!”

“Get away from me—”

It’s huffed out as though Widowmaker is suddenly exhausted, as though all she can manage is a wheezing pant. Lena watches, horrified, as she lowers herself to the floor, struggling for breath. She follows her down, a hand to her shoulder, and Widowmaker uses the last of her energy to shove her back – to push her away. There’s a second’s hesitation before Lena gives it up; she reaches instead for the little phone tucked into her belt.

“I’ll get help,” she says, but then Widowmaker is clutching at her, teeth bared as she struggles to talk. She grips again at her chest, grunts through the pain, and Lena’s blood jumps through her veins in panic. “I’m calling an ambulance right now—” Widowmaker swats at the phone.

“ _Don’t_.”

“What? You need help, Amélie, I don’t know what’s happening…”

Widowmaker’s strength returns with her anger. She pulls Lena in by the shoulder, fingers gripping tight like talons, bruising the skin beneath her armoured jumpsuit. Lena lets herself be drawn in until Widowmaker’s narrowed eyes are the only thing she can see. “I’ll kill anyone they send out,” she hisses, her throat raw and her words half-missing, and Lena chills with it. She is certain that Widowmaker could do little more than stand up and pass out, and yet—

She brings her phone up again, ignores Widowmaker’s raspy bark, and hits the first name in her contacts list, instead. Angela’s greeting is mid-morning chipper and surprised, and utterly interrupted by Lena’s panicked explanation. There’s silence on her end of the line, and Lena does not hesitate to fill it, the words spilling out of her almost incoherently quick.

“I don’t know what to do; I can’t take her to a hospital, they’ll— she won’t let me,” she stops, whimpers. Beside her, Widowmaker tilts her head to see her, and while her gaze is murderous, it is also frighteningly exhausted. “What do I do? Can you get here?”

“ _Get there_?” the voice on the other end of the line parrots. “I’m hours away. Lena, you need to get her to a doctor—” Angela cuts herself off with a sigh, and Lena is sure of what is running through her mind, but also impossibly thankful when Angela does not lend it voice. She’s _not_ leaving Widowmaker here like this, she _won’t_. Angela’s voice returns, exasperated. “Even if I get there in time, there’s no telling if I’ll even be able to—”

“No one else will help her,” Lena interrupts, tugging at her own hair. She glances back towards Widowmaker. She has a limp hand pressed against her own chest, but she’s no longer watching Lena, as though even the weight of her own head is unbearable. She groans as the pressure inside her chest expands, and Lena chirps in fear. “I can’t send her back there, I’m not leaving her. _Please_ , Angela, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Finally, a familiar sigh, and Lena feels her entire body sag with relief when Angela’s voice returns.

“Is she conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Is she lucid?”

“Kind of…”

“Tell me exactly what happened. And if you have any aspirin on you, Lena, give one to her _now_.”

Several geographical hours ahead, Angela Ziegler barks instructions into her phone’s receiver, and bites into her vacation fund for the quickest emergency flight that she can make.


	6. An Easy Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little frustrated with how short that last chapter was, so think of this as a quick add-on to make up for that (no beta, written in one go). Also, please reread that ‘inaccurate medical shit’ tag I put up there and bask in it for thirty seconds or so before reading this, thank you.

Angela’s flight takes far too long, and yet as she steps off into a heat that she hadn’t prepared for, she finds herself wishing that she were still in the air.

She’s returned to early-morning, although there’s more than just the jetlag that leads to her unnerving sense of having just been deposited back in time. When Lena’s name had flashed onto her phone screen, Angela had felt a strange stirring of dread in her stomach, half-expecting Lena to be calling for assistance after a gunshot wound. It’s been years since she’s dealt with anything quite like she had at Overwatch, and yet here she is, flying across an ocean to keep one of their most dangerous enemies from going into cardiac arrest.

Angela supposes she shouldn’t really think of Widowmaker as an enemy anymore, and yet she does. She may not be Overwatch, Overwatch may not _be_ , but she hasn’t forgotten what it was like. She hasn’t forgotten what _she_ was like, before anybody ever called her Widowmaker.

A twinge behind her eyes draws Angela sharply out of that line of thought. When she blinks and refocuses, she’s back in the cab, easing through the pre-morning traffic rush. She forces herself to stop frowning, and then massages her forehead with the tips of two fingers. When she takes a deep breath in, her lungs draw the nicotine out of the cab’s old seats, and it’s enough to steady her.

It’s better, she realises, if she keeps her thoughts quiet. If she questions why she’s doing this one more time, she might just ask her driver to turn the car around. She’s not doing this for Widowmaker, is the important thing. She’s doing this because she’s only ever heard Lena come that close to crying down the phone to her once before, and Angela hadn’t turned her away then, she won’t turn her away now.

 

In the next city over, Lena takes one look at Widowmaker and wonders if they shouldn’t have just stayed in the dilapidated factory, instead.

The cabbie mutters along to the song on the radio as she drives. She’s an older woman, greying hair and too many rosaries hanging from her rearview mirror. She’d looked concerned after Lena had helped Widowmaker into the back of her cab, had asked if she was going to puke, or if they needed her to get them to a hospital. She’d been surprised when Lena had given her the address of a building complex, instead, but hadn’t questioned her.

They round a corner too quickly, and Widowmaker’s body slumps into Lena’s. She pulls herself away again with a look of disgust, but there’s panic in her eyes. She is still clutching faintly at her chest, and also at her arm; it tingles oddly, but the pressure on her heart is easing. She doesn’t feel _good_ , not like she had when Lena was kissing her. If she’d have known it would lead to this, Talon might just have had another completed assignment on their desk already.

As though she can read Widowmaker’s thoughts through her eyes, Lena’s concern heightens. It pinches with the narrowing of her eyes, the arching of her brows, the hand that she puts on Widowmaker’s arm that she just hasn’t the strength to snap off. Widowmaker turns away, instead, jabs her chin in the direction of the window and watches the city pass by, too bright.

When the cab stops, Lena tips their driver and tries not to worry when the woman’s squinting eyes follow them around the back of the building. There’s a gate up top that she can scale, but Widowmaker’s going to be a problem. She’s walking fine, still glaring even as she holds her arms against her chest, expecting another punch to the heart.

“The camera’s aren’t running,” Lena says, if just to fill the silence. “Got a friend to help us out on that. There’s no one here, but there’s still equipment inside, so…” She walks too quickly and then stops so that Widowmaker can catch up, urging her to hurry. “We should be quick, though. I can get in through one of those windows and I’ll get the door for you. You’ll wait there, right?”

They stop outside the gate, and Widowmaker eyes the chain with disdain.

“Do you think you can climb this?”

Taking a step back, Widowmaker eyes the window that she assumes Lena will enter the building by. It’s high up, but there’s a balcony. “I can get us up there,” she says, and Lena eyes her dubiously.

“Are you sure you should try…?”

Instead of answering, Widowmaker holds out an impatient arm, and aims the other for the balcony. Lena hesitates a moment longer, remembers Angela’s warning about strenuous physical activity, and then eyes the gate once more. Decided, she steps into Widowmaker’s embrace and secures a hold around her middle. The grappling hook chimes as it hits the metal balcony and wraps around a bar; before even ensuring that it’s properly fixed in place, Widowmaker calls for its retreat, and pulls them both into the air.

They land heavily, over the other side of the balcony but not on their feet. Lena helps them both up again, and Widowmaker does not resist. “Get the window open,” she says, voice tight with pain. Lena takes one look at the grimace on her face, and then smashes her elbow through the glass.

 

Inside, they make it to the labs before Widowmaker stops walking. She clutches one hand to her chest and the other to Lena’s shoulder, drawing her attention. Before she can speak, Lena has her by the waist, urging her towards a bed. It’s still dark, and she doesn’t bother to remove the old sheet that’s been thrown over the abandoned bed before helping Widowmaker onto it.

“Angela will be here soon, okay? Just wait,” she tells her, reaching for her phone with one hand.

Widowmaker clenches her jaw as the ache between her shoulders intensifies. She feels as though she has somebody sitting upon her shoulders, weighing her down, squeezing their legs tight around her chest. It is suffocating, more so than the fear that spikes through her veins, sharp and painfully clear. She’d brought this on herself. She’d pushed and pushed for feeling, and oh, her body’s giving it to her now.

Being _here_ , of all places, is perfect irony.

It fills her mouth with the bitter taste of her own saliva, makes her teeth ache the harder that she grinds them. If not for this place, these people, she’d never have had any reason to be here in the first place. If not for Lena— if not for _Gérard_ — She almost wishes she could go back to that fateful night and drive the knife through his heart again, so that she could _feel_ it this time.

She barks out a pathetic sob and thinks, were she not so afraid of what was happening to her, she’d take out herself and Lena both if just out of spite for that man and the organization that he represented.

 

Angela pays her fare to the sound of her own bleating ringtone.

She hurries out of the car and pulls at the extendable handle on her suitcase so that she can wheel it properly behind her. Answering the call, she cuts Lena off almost instantly, asking her, “how can I get inside?” She’s directed towards a side exit, the door propped open, and closes it behind her once she’s in.

It’s dark and strange to be in Overwatch’s Headquarters, like this.

The corridors are shadowed and silent, but for the sound of her footsteps and her suitcase’s wheels. The eeriness brings all kinds of awful thoughts into the forefront of her mind; she worries that it’s not Lena calling her back here of her own free will, or that it’s not Lena calling her back here _at all_. She did good things in this building, but her achievements were not without her grave mistakes. There’s more than one person who would have reason to gather the team together again, if just to take them out.

They’d disbanded for a reason, Angela reminds herself. Perhaps all the public saw of that was the government’s order to disarm Overwatch, but it had been different, towards the end. Overwatch was created to protect the people, the public, and none of them could have predicted the slow, meticulous corrosion that had stripped them down to their foundations, and lower.

They’d been too vulnerable. They hadn’t been _enough_.

No, it was for the best that they disbanded, and to be returned here, to save Widowmaker’s life, of all reasons… Angela steels her resolve. Tells herself, _just this once_ , and makes it a promise. If Lena asks her again, she will say no. And if any of this is just some foul trick by Widowmaker’s hand, or anybody else’s, then Angela’s will be the first gun to fire.

 

When she reaches the lab, it is both a relief and a disaster to discover Widowmaker lounging in a bed.

A light has been turned on, but there are no windows for it to be seen from. At Angela’s arrival, Widowmaker closes her eyes and sighs, while Lena spurts into being by her side. Angela holds one hand up before Lena can begin, halting whatever she’s about to say, and takes a look around the room. Nothing is where it should be, but the equipment looks intact, and there’s clearly still power to the building.

“Wheel that machine over here,” she tells Lena, pointing it out, and then lifts her suitcase up onto the bed beside Widowmaker’s. She draws out her medical supplies under Widowmaker’s watchful gaze; she does not turn away, even as Angela turns to see her, assessing the lucidity in her gaze. “You’ll have to take that off,” she says, nodding down to her chest. “I’ll need your chest bare, as well as your wrists and ankles.”

Once she’s wheeled the machine closer and ensured that it’s plugged in, Lena hesitates in place. It’s only when Widowmaker meets her gaze and does not ask her to leave that she relaxes, and tries not to stare as the rest of her equally blue chest is revealed. For a moment, even Angela seems stunned. She’s never had an opportunity to see Widowmaker up close like this, and the glint of her skin has her thoughts whirling, even if her body tenses in mild repulsion.

Before she can work out the cause for the poor circulation, she turns her attention to the ECG machine, and begins the process of dotting the electrodes onto Widowmaker’s exposed body. “Are you still in pain?” she asks, and Widowmaker nods her head. “I’m going to take some blood in a little while, is that alright?” Another nod, and Angela looks at her, uncertain.

It’s all too familiar to the night that agents had brought Amélie in to see her, dazed yet supposedly unharmed. If she had known, then…

“What’s happening to her?” Lena pipes up, breaking her focus mid-thought. She looks uncertain and sorry to have dragged Angela into this, but determined. It’s a familiar expression. Angela turns back to her case, preparing a clean needle, and shakes her head.

“My first assumption is that she’s had a heart attack— perhaps more than one.” She eyes Widowmaker again, the strained look on her face, and frowns. “Or she’s still having one… I’ll know more after I’ve examined her.”

“Heart attack?” Lena repeats, shaking her head. She turns back to Widowmaker in shock, and then sweeps out an arm as though to say, _look at her_. “She can’t be having a heart attack—she’s still alive, for one, she was walking fine before. She zip-lined us up onto a balcony when we got here—!”

Angela cuts her an exhausted look. “What did I say about strenuous physical activity?” Needle in hand, she casts a look towards the ECG machine, and frowns. “It’s not picking anything up,” she mutters to herself, watching the screen, but no sooner has she spoken than the heart rate monitor spikes with a beat. It shouldn’t surprise her. Widowmaker’s skin is this starved of oxygen for a reason, and yet… Angela takes a moment to compose herself before returning her attention to the needle.

“I’m going to take some blood, now,” she tells Widowmaker, and begins searching for a vein.

 

Through the exam, Lena stands, paces on the spot, and eventually takes a seat beside Angela’s suitcase on the bed next to Widowmaker’s. Every now and then Widowmaker gasps and sighs with pain, and Angela stops what she’s doing, watching her closely, as though noting down every change. Each time it happens, Angela’s frown deepens, past confusion and into mild despair.

Once she’s done all that she can for now, Angela straightens up and stares at the ECG machine.

“What is it?” Lena asks.

Angela turns to her with a small frown still in place. “I’m not sure, yet. Something’s causing a series of very small heart attacks,” she tells Widowmaker, who looks none too pleased with the news. “I’m going to have to take an echo test of your heart to try and find out what. If it keeps going on like this…”

Widowmaker tilts her head back against the bed, closes her eyes, and sighs. “Very well,” she manages, refocusing on Angela. She sends a quick glance Lena’s way, as though checking that she is still in the room with her – there’s something settling about that, although she’s in no position to over-analyse why. That Lena’s done all this for her at all is a mystery. That _Angela Ziegler_ is here with her, an enigma.

She could almost convince herself that her heart failed back in the factory, and this is her own looping hell; trapped in an abandoned laboratory with two women who hate her and a suitcase full of fun-looking medical supplies. She can think of only one worse position that she could be in right now, and it’s the only reason she allows this to go on.

She is well past her warranty date, as far as Talon is concerned. She doubts, by this point, that they’d even bother with her chair.

 

The next test passes slowly and silently.

Widowmaker has little interest in the results; she has an idea of how this will end, and she has another on how to take both Lena and Angela down with her, should they try to speed her death along. It confuses her, briefly, just how calm she feels when she comes to accept that. She’s more in touch with her emotions now than she can ever remember being; she feels around herself for that earlier fear, the reluctance to die, the longing to do more— see more.

She expects that’s how it usually goes, and she understands it, certainly. She’s a valuable asset to Talon; her own longevity increases their chances of success, and therefore it’s always been at the forefront of her priorities. She would do anything to ensure that her body could return to them, her masters, her makers, if only to be sent out again after quick repairs the next morning.

Now, however, her body seems to have given up the fight, and her mind right along with it. Widowmaker does not fear her own death. Rather, when imagining the solitude of the deepness and the darkness that she expects to return to, she feels relieved. She had always imagined her death to be by guns and glory – more fight, more frenzy, and much more blood. How can she complain, if this is what she gets, instead? A semi-comfortable bed. Company, even.

An easy death is much more than she deserves, and she can recognise that, even as she welcomes it.

And she would be content to welcome it, truly she thinks she would, until Angela Ziegler stops moving and gasps so softly that Widowmaker swears her heart pounds ahead of its conditioned rhythm. Her head snaps towards the medic; on the other side of her, Lena’s does the same.

“Oh, no,” Angela breathes, and Lena drops seamlessly from her perch.

“What is it?”

“Oh… how did they do this?”

“Angela?” Lena puts a hand on her arm and feels tears well in her eyes without reason, but for the horror stricken look on Angela’s face. She turns her attention to the results of the echo test, but Lena is not trained for this, does not know what is right and what is out of place. Widowmaker’s heart is a grey lump of veins and muscle on the ultrasound screen, and that is what it _should_ look like, as far as she’s concerned. “What—what’s happened?”

Angela shakes her head, turns to the screen and shakes her head again. How they’ve done this—how she’ll _fix_ it—

“Widowmaker,” she says, and Lena nods her head. Yes, Widowmaker. Widowmaker, in the bed. “ _Widowmaker_ ,” Angela repeats, jabbing a finger now against the screen, to a fat artery on the left side of the grey heart. “It’s a Widowmaker – it’s almost completely blocked. They did this on _purpose_. Lena,” and she turns to her, and to the woman in the bed who looks just as oblivious as Angela wishes she still was, “I have no idea how she’s still alive.”

She meets Widowmaker’s gaze and wonders if this is for the best, if this is how it should be. You put an old dog down to end its suffering, that’s the way it’s always been done. To save it; to save them. How fitting, that Widowmaker should be in this very building when she’s given the news.

“I don’t know if I can help you,” she tells her. _I don’t know if I want to_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s right, folks, there is literally a type of heart attack called The Widowmaker. I took that to mean that it’s either a clue to Widowmaker’s body modifications, or some stellar foreshadowing. :)


	7. A Crisis of Ethics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I started a new job last week, so updates are going to be slower from now on. :)

Lena watches in silent despair as Angela Zeigler paces backwards and forth, just five feet ahead of her.

She’s seen Angela restless before; she’s seen her distraught with worry and frustration and that old kind of exhaustion that comes with her job. She’s never quite seen her _this_ distressed, though, this _torn_ , and it eats a pit in Lena’s stomach with worry. If she doesn’t speak up, she is sure Angela will high-tail it back onto a plane and head for the hills, never looking back, never calling to ask if Amélie even survived this little hiccup after all.

Lena shouldn’t blame her, and yet she would.

It’s not fair, but her emotions are turning uglier the longer that Angela postpones any kind of surgery that she can perform, _anything_ to stop Amélie’s heart from failing. She feels panic unlike she has before, a heavy kind that does not have her zipping around the room, darting towards an exit, but that clings to her ankles like dried cement. She clenches both hands by her sides and tries to will tears back. When Angela’s gaze focuses once again on her, she sighs and stops pacing.

“I don’t know if I can do anything,” she says, facing away from Lena, but keeping her in her peripheral. “Even if I knew what they’d done to her to begin with, there’s no guarantee that opening her up won’t just kill her anyway.” Lena grits her teeth, bites into the fleshy inside of her cheeks until the pain numbs. “Her body could yet stabilize, and if it does… Lena, how do you know she isn’t playing nice in order to save her own life? She could kill us at any—”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Lena says, already losing her voice. Her throat is thick with oncoming tears, but she forces air through it, makes her body relax. “If she wanted us dead, she’d have killed us by now. She doesn’t have her gun, but we both know she wouldn’t need it. Look at her,” and she turns, now, towards the great glass window overlooking the medical room.

Widowmaker remains on the hospital bed, looking blankly at the ceiling. She still has one hand clenched against her chest, just over the medical gown that Angela had given her to wear. With her visor removed and the room shadowed, she could almost look like her regular self again, her blue-tinted skin merely a trick of the light.

“She doesn’t even look worried,” Lena continues, turning properly to Angela, now. “You’ve operated in worse circumstances. You’ve—you’ve done so much more than this before, I know you’re capable of it.”

“Lena…”

“She isn’t who you think she is. I know she’s not… I know things are different, but she’s still a human being. Those things she’s done, I don’t even think she wanted to do them. I don’t think she’s been in control of herself this whole time. How could she have been?”

“And that absolves her?” Angela asks, but her tone is not accusatory. Truthfully, she’s struggling to find the answer to that one herself. Quieted, Lena shrugs her shoulders, either because the answer isn’t important, or because she simply doesn’t know.

“Maybe. I don’t know. That’s not my point, though. You’re a doctor – you save lives, that’s what you do, and she’s _dying_ in there and you’re doing nothing about it. You probably think we’re better off if she dies, and I can’t promise you that she won’t just go back to Talon after all of this. But even if she’s not the Amélie that she was, she’s still a _somebody_ , and whatever they’ve done to her… it’s wearing off. She’s changing.

“I don’t know who she is anymore, but she’s not what they made her. The old Amélie might not come back, but whoever she is now, I think I can help her. If nothing else, I can get her away from Talon, she can try and start again. Doesn’t she still get a chance to do that?”

“Lena,” Angela tells her, so gently that the tears Lena has been holding back make a stinging appearance in both eyes. “No matter how she’s changing, she’s _dangerous_. She’s a criminal, she’s done horrible things. Am I supposed to save her life so that she can continue hurting people?”

“It might not come to that—”

“And it _might_ ,” Angela counters, and the pair of them fall into tense silence. “You’re too close to her. You keep thinking of her as the woman that she was, but even if she leaves Talon, she still has the skills to do harm to others.”

“So do all of us – all of us at Overwatch. You think we’d be any better, if the same had happened to us? If Talon had taken one of us in the middle of the night and made us into _that_?” She jabs a finger towards the window, to Amélie’s prone body, and then drops her hand. “If it was _any_ of us, you’d be in there performing that operation, and you probably wouldn’t be alone.”

“That’s not fair,” Angela whispers, shaking her head, although a part of her cannot help but wonder if Lena is right. “If joining Overwatch taught me anything, it’s that sometimes violence is necessary. It’s an ugly truth and I never wanted to believe it; I chose to be idealistic, but it was naïve. Every mission that we completed, all of that senseless brutality— but what would have happened if we hadn’t?”

“This is different.”

“Is it?” Angela steps towards her with a sigh. “Is it different because _Amélie_ is different, or because of how you feel about her?”

The question brings a violent blush to Lena’s cheeks. “It’s got nothing to do with that,” she says, and it might just be the easiest, if the most unconvincing lie that she’s ever told. “And so what if it has? We were friends, _you_ were friends with her, too. After what happened, she had no one who kept believing in her, who kept going after her, who kept trying, _but me_. You all gave up on her.”

“We still don’t know if she joined Talon of her own free will—”

“ _What_? You think she would have? Do you think she wanted _any_ of this?”

“Lena, you’re letting your emotions cloud your judgement.”

“Well, so are you!” Lena lets out a loud huff, tugging on her hair. She loses Angela’s gaze for a moment, shakes her head and draws in a deep breath before finding her again. “That’s a person sitting in there,” she says, her voice lower, if just as angry. “Are you going to do your job, or are you going to let her die?”

In the end, Angela supposes that’s all it really comes down to.

She follows Lena’s gaze towards the window, to Widowmaker and her imminent deathbed, and wonders if it wouldn’t just be kinder to put her gently out of her pain. The thought provokes a sharp twinge – the stirrings of a headache. She had made an oath, in the beginnings of her career, to withhold judgement from her patients and treat them equally. That’s her job, the only way that she could do her job, and yet…

How is she supposed to rationalize returning a murderer into the world? How easily Widowmaker could take Lena’s life, now that she knows how hard Lena would fight to keep her alive. And who would be next? Her – Overwatch – countless innocent civilians in whatever plan Talon next hatches? 

And yet the longer she looks at Widowmaker, docile in that bed, so close to death and yet so peaceful, she hates how difficult it is to reconcile that image with the ruthless killer who had taken out one of Overwatch’s head operatives. Surely, Widowmaker has changed to allow both she and Lena to live for this long while in her company, or is it simply part of a larger manipulation? Her life is on the line; Angela would not put it past her.

It is, by far, the kinder option to let her die in that bed. And yet, if she does nothing, what kind of doctor would that make her?

Unbeknownst to Lena, Angela makes her decision, and while she is uncertain of whether it is the correct one, she is resolute.

“Angela,” Lena says, and if she hadn’t already decided, Angela is sure this would have tipped her out of her indecision. “Please. _Please_ , help her. I think you’re the only person right now who would.”

She’s slow to nod her head, but she can’t help it. If what Lena is saying is true, if Widowmaker really is loosening the hold that Talon has on her, then Angela cannot help but wonder if they’d do nearly as much for her to bring her back. She is certain, though, that it would not be a quick injection that sent her gently into that long goodnight. Slipping out of her jacket, Angela directs Lena with a wave of her hand as she prepares to leave the room.

“I’m going to need you to pick up a few things, and you may want to pack a suitcase.” She stops at the door to the medical lab, turning towards Lena. “If the surgery goes well, and she… cooperates, you could be here a while. She’ll need clean clothes – loose-fitting, if possible – and as I can’t stay, you’ll be her sole care-giver.”

“If she cooperates,” Lena repeats, uncertain, but she’ll deal with that later.

“I’d recommend she stays here for at least a week. If Talon are going to come looking for her, it may be wiser not to leave. The facility still has running water and electricity, so you should be fine. Move her up to one of the bedrooms, if you like, I think most of them are still furnished. Winston never did truly give up on this place.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry he didn’t.”

“Indeed,” Angela agrees. “You’ll want to stock up on healthy food – and I know you know what I mean by that. She’ll want plenty of fruits and fibre, although she may not have much of an appetite for a while. That’s to be expected, although I’m not sure how this will affect her, considering…” She spares a glance through the little window in the door, frowning. “I can’t come back out here to remove her stitches or check on her recovery, but I’ll make a list of what to look out for. I’m sure you’ll find suitable documents online, if need be.”

A small, cold hand touches hers, drawing Angela’s attention back down to Lena. “Thank you,” Lena tells her, with far too much gratitude for a task that Angela has yet to successfully complete. “I know you might not think this is a good idea, but if anything goes wrong, that’s on me, okay? I really appreciate you doing this.”

Angela’s throat tightens when she tries to swallow; instead of speaking, she gives a short nod, and then reaches for the door. Widowmaker turns to see them as they enter, her gaze lucid if subdued. She seems faintly curious, and little else, although there’s a clear discomfort on her face.

“Have you decided what to do with me?” she asks, seemingly uncaring of that outcome, and lowers her head to the bed.

“Angela’s going to help you,” Lena tells her, moving forward. “If you’ll let her.”

“Help me?”

“A surgery,” Lena explains. “On your heart.”

Widowmaker’s gaze slips along to Angela, but it is chillingly empty. Angela gives her a moment to process it, and is not surprised when a faint smile tugs at Widowmaker’s lips. “You’re going to operate on me,” she says, the words airy, as though they’re talking about the impossible, “to save my life?”

“I will, if you agree to it, or I can give you some painkillers and send you on your way.” Lena makes a faint noise beside her, but does not protest. The smile slips from Widowmaker’s lips; Angela takes her small nod as consent, and casts a quick glance around the room, surveying the equipment. “This is going to take me a while to prepare for. Lena, I think you should go home and rest.”

“What?”

“You’re exhausted, you look like you’ve been up half the night,” she says, and shakes her head when Lena attempts to argue otherwise. “If the operation’s successful, she’ll need you to be at your best to take care of her.” (A scoff from the bed, which Angela and Lena thankfully ignore.) “Go home, sleep, and do some shopping. I take it you can get back in here just as easily without being seen?”

“Yeah,” Lena reluctantly agrees, but her focus turns quickly towards Widowmaker. “If it—if something goes wrong,” she starts, and swallows thickly when Amélie closes her eyes, breathing relaxed.

“I’ll call you,” Angela agrees, a hand to Lena’s shoulder, gently guiding her back from the bed. She doesn’t look forward to being alone with Widowmaker, and yet one look at her steels Angela’s nerves. At least, if she tries to attack her, Angela is fairly certain she could neutralize her first. “She’s my patient, now, and as long as she behaves herself, I’ll honour that.”

Lena hesitates before she lets Angela guide her away. “You will, won’t you?” she asks the bed, and Widowmaker opens her eyes, if just to flash her a sardonic expression. “Please just let her take care of you.”

From the bed, Widowmaker releases a short sigh. Her body is a mass of tense muscles, and while she craves an end to the pain, there is also a lace of fear that comes with having Overwatch’s very own medic treating her. She wagers that she’ll last perhaps ten minutes into the surgery, perhaps twenty, considering her doctor. It’ll be a painless, if lethal injection that gets her, much better than she deserves.

“Oh, chérie,” she smiles, “I surrender myself entirely to her mercy.”

 

Outside is hot and too bright.

Lena glares against the sun as she hops a fence and skips away from Overwatch territory. She checks in with _her friend_ on that security camera thing, and ensures that everything’s fine there. She can’t have the cameras turned off for weeks on end, but as long as it’s feasible, maybe they can arrange certain times for them to go offline for a few minutes. She can be quick, even with a few shopping bags hanging off her arms.

It’s something to think about later, and she will.

For now, Lena tries to hail down a cab without yawning, which takes an unfortunate amount of effort. She’ll sleep for a little while – set an alarm. She isn’t sure how long heart surgeries are supposed to last, but Angela will let her know when she’s finished, or if anything else is to happen. Anything like Widowmaker waking up mid-surgery, sealing herself up, and hopping out of there completely fine, not dead, not gonna happen.

That’s something else to think about later, she figures, but it’s almost easy to put the events of the day out of her mind. She’s exhausted. Over-tired, really. She slips into the back of a cab with another yawn, and gives the driver her address. Is it selfish to be so grateful for sleep, she wonders? Amélie is on that hospital bed, Angela is suffering a crisis of ethics, and she’s heading home to a hopefully dreamless sleep.

Another thing that she’ll have to consider later, when she’s no longer dog tired, she supposes.

 

 

Lena wakes dry-mouthed and itchy-eyed.

That she hasn’t slept for long enough is her body’s first reaction; she rolls over to a cool part of her pillow, a hand shoved beneath it for comfort, and so ready to fall back into sleep. She would have, too, had the next few seconds not brought back the events of the night with hazy memory. It is not the first time that Lena wakes with the thought of Amélie on her mind, and yet—

She’s dreamt about her often, woken mid-dream with a start, sometimes, as though she’s still in combat. Lena is used to waking with a quick heart and a strange mixture of both fright and relief, is the point, but this...

Amélie. _Angela_. That echoey room deep inside Overwatch Headquarters with all of its dusty furniture and equipment.

It feels different, this time – more substantial. Far too real, considering the events.

As confusion slips slowly into recognition, Lena’s stomach has no time to clench with dread before her body propels her upright. She’s reaching towards her bedside table and the little phone that she hadn’t silenced, half-hoping that a call would disturb her, if she didn’t wake quickly enough. Half-dreading it, too. What she finds, instead, is a single text from Angela. There’s no mention of Amélie or the operation, just a small, simple: _Fruits & fibre. Don’t forget your toothbrush._

Lena scans the text three times before she makes sense of it, and then her panicky heart skips three beats and does not slow down. Her toothbrush. One for Amélie, too, she supposes. Food, clothes… bedsheets? Lena helps herself out of bed before she can let her growing list overwhelm her. The urge to check in at OHQ is so strong that her heart aches a little at the thought of how long it’ll take her to get there, after her prompt shopping trip.

Angela had said to expect a long stay. With the operation now finished, Lena can only hope that Amélie will cooperate until she’s fully recovered. Will she be groggy when she wakes – will she get sick? God, let her not be a reluctant patient, Lena pleads. She’ll pick up everything Amélie might need in advance, maybe even something sweet to eat, a little post-surgery treat.

“But first…”

Lena slips into her bathroom with a clean pair of underwear and a hoodie just big enough to hide in. She turns the water temperature up a notch and lets her body shiver in the heat of it – lets it burn away every thought and fear until the only thing that she can process with enough clarity is the gentle blue glow of her chronal accelerator, shimmering against wet tiles.  

 

The Overwatch building is quiet and dark when Lena returns, and not unlike something she might have found in a horror movie.

Her footsteps are soft against a layer of dust, and she slips off her hoodie, letting her accelerator’s light guide her. There’s something unnerving about being in a place so familiar, while it looks so different. She’d never had a problem spending the night here before, chasing down corridors past security to reach the break room and the snack she’d forgotten all about before bed. Now, she can’t help but expect a monster around every corner.

She supposes that’s largely in part to what went on here, hours before, while she slept. Her shopping bags are heavy and slowly cutting off the circulation in her fingers, but Lena clings tight to them, hoping she’ll actually need them. Angela would have told her if something went wrong – it’s the only certainty Lena feels she can cling to, and so she does. She’d have informed her. She wouldn’t let her make this trip, bags in hand, only to find Widowmaker as blue as the day Talon made her, and unmoving.

She _wouldn’t_.

And yet…

Now that Lena’s thoughts have turned to the topic, she cannot help but follow them down one disastrous scenario after another. What if Amélie were to wake up, totally recovered, and returned to whatever state Talon had left her in? What if it’s not Amélie’s life that she should be worrying for, but _Angela’s_? Could she ever live with herself, knowing she’d begged her to save a known terrorist’s life, only for her to lose her own in the process?

Lena’s stomach sits heavy and tight, clenching and empty. She suddenly wishes she’d have defied Angela’s orders and stuck around to watch, even if it meant getting in the way.

Distracted by her thoughts, she almost doesn’t realise when she arrives at the medic’s bay, and stops short as soon as she sees the door. There’s still a dim light on inside, not bright enough for Angela to have performed her surgery in, but turned down – as though someone inside were sleeping.

(It’s easier to think of it like that – Amélie in here, sleeping all this time, while Angela watches over her. Nurses her back to health. She’s sure the real operation was much more graphic, though with so little food in her stomach, nausea comes quick and easy. She won’t think about that yet, if she can help it.)

It’s her distinct blue glow that draws Angela’s attention, she supposes, but seconds later a shadow falls against the window in the door, and the handle dips and clicks as it’s pulled open. “Lena,” Angela whispers once she’s fully in sight, her voice laced with fatigue. She glances briefly at the shopping bags in Lena’s hands, and then urges her inside. Lena enters with a quick heart; her gaze darts about the room until it settles on a closed curtain.

“Bring them through here,” Angela urges her, a hand at her elbow, and Lena reluctantly follows her through a second door. It’s brighter in here, if smaller, and Lena dumps her shopping bags on a table before turning in place again. She stares at the door and does not open it, although she wants to – wants to rip that curtain over and make sure that it’s Amélie behind it, and not just an empty bed.

She almost jumps when a hand lands on her shoulder, and Angela rubs the spot in apology.

“She’s doing well,” she says, and seems reluctant to add much more. “They— well. She’ll need a few weeks to recover, at the least. Keep her on bed rest for a few days, if she’ll let you, I don’t want her moving around. No zip-lining,” she jokes, although she forgets to smile. “Now, let’s see what you brought…”

Lena lets her rifle through the shopping bags, paying little mind to Angela’s hums of approval. Her hands pause around a pastry bag, the brown paper laced with grease, but when she lifts her gaze to Lena, whatever reprimand she’d had ready dies in her throat.

“Is she in pain?” Lena asks her, and Angela lets the rest of her examination go unfinished.

“Not right now.”

“Angela. What they did to her… Is she going to be okay?”

It takes Angela too long to answer. Eventually, she steps away from the table and places a hand on Lena’s arm, as though that says something that she can’t get out. A _sorry_ , maybe, or an _I don’t know_. Lena doesn’t want either, and yet she doesn’t shrug her away – would let Angela wrap her up and sit her on her knee and rock her, if she tried it.

“Physically,” Angela begins carefully, “she’ll be able to recover. This will help her,” with a quick sweep of the shopping bags, “and you, too, as long as she’ll let you.” A strange look comes across her face, and then Angela withdraws. She beckons Lena after her a second later, towards a side counter and a pair of sinks. A little metal dish has been set aside, and Lena does not have to get close to see that its insides are smeared red.

“What’s that?”

Angela brings it over for her to see, and Lena feels bile begin its burning ascent up her throat before she manages to swallow it back down again. Inside the bowl is what appears to be a cracked gem, as small as Lena’s little fingernail, with eight bent and broken legs. It looks like it could have been set in some kind of crown, like a beautiful jeweled spider that’s just met the underside of someone’s size nines, though Lena has an awful suspicion of just where Angela found it.

“It’s no longer working,” Angela tells her, “and I don’t think it was a tracking device, per se. But, Lena, _please_ be careful. If they know where she is, she’s in no state to fight them, and I don’t like your chances alone.” She takes the bowl with her to the waste disposal, and Lena takes a moment – closes her eyes and breathes deep, wills the tears back.

“If they knew she were here, they’d have her by now,” she says, as much to convince herself.

“They might,” Angela agrees, washing her hands. When she turns back to Lena, there’s a soft look on her face, an expression that her features are well familiar with. “Go and check on her,” she says, nodding her chin towards the door. “I’ve left a chair by her bedside, and some water, for when she wakes.

“And Lena,” she waits until Lena halts at the door, and finally, _finally_ , lets herself hope that the Amélie that will wake up won’t be the Amélie that Talon remembers. “Look after her.”

Lena holds her gaze for a prolonged moment, and then nods her head.

Amélie’s recovery room seems all the dimmer, when Lena enters it. All the bigger, too, as she takes each wobbly step towards the curtain blocking her from view. Lena hesitates behind it once she gets there, and even casts a glance behind her, looking in panic for Angela. She hadn’t been followed, though, and she turns back to the curtain wishing that Angela had given her some kind of heads up. Something to prepare her.

She reaches for the curtain with a sick feeling, and does not rush to open it. She’s seen lots of people post-surgery – had her own fair share of them, too, while she was still at Overwatch. It’s something that comes with the territory, and yet this feels different. This feels like it’d be too good to be true, for her to find Amélie even _alive_ on the other side of the curtain, never mind recovering.

All of Lena’s held breath leaves her when her gaze finally lands on the bed.

It isn’t empty, is all that Lena lets herself see, at first. Her gaze focuses on a pair of legs beneath the blanket, and does not lift. Two legs – human-shaped. It’s a good start. Next, she inches her gaze to the left, to the delicate hand and the little clip on the end of a finger that’s attached to a heart-rate monitoring machine. The steady beeping is a comfort.

There’s something about the view, however, that has Lena halting at each delicate finger. They certainly look like they could be Amélie’s, long and delicate, and yet… With a start, she realises what’s different about them, and then she cannot postpone looking at Amélie’s face any longer.

“Oh… Amélie,” Lena whispers, and it’s her, there in the bed before her, exhausted and faintly ill-looking, but no longer with that sickly blue tinge to her skin. Lena’s eyes prick with tears again at the sight, and she lets herself reach out to her, if only to touch the back of her hand with her fingertips. She needs to _prove_ that her skin is as warm as it looks, and it _is_.

She lets herself fall into the chair that Angela had set out for her, after that, and leans her body forward, keeping the contact with Amélie’s hand.

“I won’t let them take you again,” she whispers to the bed, watching the way that Amélie’s eyes move in her sleep. “Promise”

 

 

Angela flies home before dinner, and although she makes an unenthusiastic start on a bag of peanuts, she is soon sent into the nearest toilet with one hand at her stomach, and the other over her mouth.

She waits a while behind the locked door, letting her stomach clench and unclench, and finally almost even settle. She wets her face with water, rinses her mouth with it, and pops in a mint. When she meets her gaze in the mirror, her reflection appears wan and tired. She doesn’t imagine she’d looked very convincing when she’d told Lena that Amélie was going to recover.

There’d been a moment, back there, with Amélie’s heart vulnerable and open to her. She couldn’t have intentionally sabotaged the surgery – she could not have purposefully allowed her knife to _slip_ against an artery, taking Amélie’s life and whatever hope Talon would ever have of reanimating her as their weapon. Angela isn’t a murderer, she isn’t built for it; the thought repels her.

And yet, for just a second, with Amélie soft and open to her, she’d actually thought that _she would_.


	8. You Opened the Door for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick word for the future: I’m going to be losing internet connection sometime near the end of the month, I think, and it might not be back for a couple of weeks – maybe longer. I don’t know how it’ll affect me yet, and I’m not going to keep putting updates about this in the chapter notes, but I’ll have access to the internet on my phone and will be active on my writing/femslash blog, [luthorao3](http://luthorao3.tumblr.com/), for anyone who cares to follow.
> 
> Another: Chapter title comes from Sia’s ‘Dressed in Black’. And, yea, there’s probably gonna be a playlist by the end of this fic. 
> 
> Also, and a spoiler for TWs: Please check the additional tags for what’s been added regarding suicidal content. I promise it’s only in a character’s thoughts, and only ever will be in a character’s thoughts, but if it’s going to make you uncomfortable, please do what’s right for you and don’t read on. 
> 
> Again, all my thanks to keelahh for the beta work~ you’re a star! And to everyone leaving adorable comments, you all~~~ blow me away!

He’s standing when Dr. Roberts enters the room.

It’s deathly silent and his back is to him. Roberts thinks he hears the sound of a lighter sparking, but it’s not until the nicotine ribbons towards him through the air that he lets himself believe it. A moment later, a deep drag is taken; it’s just light enough for Roberts to make out the cloud of smoke on his next exhale. Roberts has the sudden urge to turn in place, walk back through the door, and close it quietly behind him. His boss still hasn’t turned; he could probably get away with it, if he acted quickly. He takes a step backwards as though to try it out, and the sound of his rubber sole squeaking against the flooring finally inspires his boss to look upon him.

He stands perfectly still.

It’s worse, that he’s not speaking. Roberts could deal with his anger if only he could see how it was going to manifest, but this tense uncertainty is making his hands sweat. He rubs them inconspicuously against his lab coat and adjusts his glasses while more smoke fills the air.

“Sir,” he starts, when the silence begins to make him feel ill, but a hand is raised to quickly quiet him. Roberts stops, watching the way that the cigarette shrivels down, releasing a glob of smoldering ash that lands not so far from his boss’ shoe. When he looks up again, into eyes sharp but distant, he swallows and pretends that he’s unbothered.

“Have there been any new readings?”

“No, sir.” He fumbles for a way to elaborate. “No heartbeat, no signal. Either she’s dead, or…” His words trail off at the narrowing of his boss’ eyes. “Either it’s been destroyed, sir, or she has. Most likely, both.”

This is taken in with another drag from the cigarette, long and hard. It’s almost down to his fingers within the next few moments, already, and he steps towards a clean medical tray to squash the lit end out. Roberts turns his attention quickly away from it, neutralizing the expression on his face. When his boss turns to him, again, he’s perfectly composed.

“Are you suggesting somebody took her body to pieces, searching for it?”

Roberts swallows at the mental image. “No, sir. Not exactly.”

“Then you’re suggesting that she knew it was in there?” There’s something off-putting about his boss’ tone, and Roberts hurries to shake his head, frowning. “Might somebody have tipped her off before she left?”

“As far as I’m aware, we’re the only two people who know of its existence. When you asked me to keep it quiet from the others, I did. The last thing we needed was for them to suspect the same kind of… _contingency plan_ had been put in place for any of them.” His boss makes a small noise of agreement, but his gaze is still suspicious. “I would never tell her, sir,” and he even sounds vaguely annoyed at being accused. “I’m the one who put it inside her, if you remember.”

They share a hard look. The bug had always been a _just in case_ , and with Widowmaker’s conditioning breaking down quicker with each induction, it had clearly been a necessity. An unstable Widowmaker was dangerous, and Roberts was sure he’d be the first person she came for, were she to have learned of their last ditch effort to stop her, planted in among her modified heart, ready to stop it at any sign of dissent.

“There’s a chance,” he begins, “that it activated during combat. If she took a hard enough blow to the chest, or if something pierced it. I’ve never made something like that before, it might have worked in theory, but circumstance could have made it unpredictable.” He takes a step forward when his boss does not stop him, only listening intently, and forces himself to hold his gaze. “Nobody could have operated on her body and removed it without killing her, but me.

“She’s dead, sir. I’d bet my life on it.”

His boss holds his gaze for a long moment, as though he could see a lie in his eyes, should it exist. Finally, content with what he’s seen, he turns away and draws a mobile phone out of an inner-jacket pocket. His fingers tap quickly and silently against the screen, and Roberts is left to watch, until his gaze is met once more.

“Then we’d best find the body.”

 

 

Lena’s dreams don’t take her far.

She’s in the chair that she’d fallen asleep in, her body tight with an ache that she can’t quite feel. It’s dark and quiet, but for a steadily growing whistle in the background. She’s watching Amélie sleep, and there’s something comforting about that, the way that her chest rises and falls beneath the blanket. She tries to sit up or stand, but her body is heavy and uncooperative; she doesn’t panic, yet. She can sit here, watching Amélie – there’s a vague sense of duty surrounding the task that she does not question.

In the distance, that whistle increases, the sound of a gale against an unsealed window. High-pitched, dog-heard. There’s no particular spot that it’s originating from; Lena turns her head to every dark corner in the medical bay and does not manage to determine its source. The sound curves around her like a wisp, until it could pass for flute music, or an inhuman scream. The increase in volume brings a strange pressure to her ears, as though Lena’s submerged too far under water, or she’s up high in the air.

She tries to pop it by swallowing three times, and finally, as though pulling cotton wool out of her ears, the sound manifests as an approaching train whistle. It’s an old-fashioned noise that Lena’s sure she’s only ever heard on gimmicky advertisements and practical-joke-toys; she imagines a train on old tracks approaching, steam bellowing from its chimney, blaring its whistle.

It could be right outside the door, racing down the corridor, it’s so loud. It sends her heart into a panic; she stares at the door as though she expects it to enter at any second, and then, dragging her back under, the cool touch of a hand on her shoulder silences the noise entirely. She does not see Amélie rise from the bed, but suddenly she is before her, blue and bold in her uniform, a rifle in hand.

All Lena can see of her is her sharp eyes and smiling lips as she moves close enough to speak into her ear. As her voice breaks on the first word – crisp and far too clear – Lena recognises that she is dreaming. Amélie’s words are like icy splinters through her mind, separating reality from fiction, tearing the world apart.

“ _Adieu, chérie_.”

Lena wakes with a start.

The room is pervasively dark. She sits her aching body up and tries not to wince when muscles pull back into a semblance of their correct shape. Her gaze ticks towards the door and she waits, holding her breath, for the silence to calm her nerves. There is no train whistle here, and yet she feels Amélie’s hand on her shoulder, still, as cold as if her entire arm had been exposed to an open window.

Inspecting her sleeve, Lena almost doesn’t notice the way large, brown eyes watch her from the bed. Her stomach gives an instinctive jolt when she meets Amélie’s eyes, body tensing, but she soon relaxes under her hazy stare. Amélie looks like she hasn’t yet made sense of what she’s seeing; her gaze is unnaturally relaxed, though Lena suspects that has something to do with the heavy pain meds that she’s on.

Finally, a crack in her brow. Amélie’s eyes dart across Lena’s features, touching upon each familiarity with confusion. She’s not who she expected to find here, sitting by her hospital bedside, if indeed that’s where she is at all. She feels something on the other side of her mind – some awful thought that draws her towards it, and which she reaches for, only for it to elude her. It teases her and eventually she gives it up. It can wait.

“Gérard…?”

The first time that she says his name, her voice cracks against the vowels the way that old clockwork gears catch on in-setting rust. An unsteady hand reaches for Lena, sways ineffectively this way and that, before returning to the bed again. Amélie clenches her fingers. Her head tilts further into the pillow, as though just looking at Lena is exhausting her, and Lena waits to see if she will fall back asleep.

She hopes she will, suddenly – hadn’t planned for this, for _Gérard_. She doesn’t want to be the person who has to take Amélie by the hand and lead her back towards her own awful memories. She teeters on her seat, grips the edge of it with both hands and prepares to say something, when Amélie’s eyes close. She falls asleep facing Lena, and does not stir again until a dull ache drags her back to the surface of her consciousness, almost an hour later.

Lena’s already awake when she comes to, this time.

She’s had a walk around without straying far, and has taken off her hoodie. It’s the blue glow of her chronal accelerator that draws Amélie’s scowling attention. Lena manages an almost-smile when she notices. Her body feels surreal, the entire room feels intangible, as though she’s woken up inside a dream that her brain has forgotten to drag her out from. She feels distinctly uncomfortable – a little achy from the chair, and unclean even despite her shower.

Still, she steps carefully closer to Amélie’s bedside.

“What—?”

“Easy, love,” Lena tells her when she attempts to sit up. She touches a hand to Amélie’s shoulder and gently, gently pushes her back towards the bed. There’s a brief resistance before Amélie’s body gives out beneath her, and a honey-brown stare lands accusingly on Lena’s hand until it’s removed. “You’ve had a big operation, but you’re alright now. Do you… do you remember what happened?”

Amélie stares at her a moment, her frown remaining. She appears mutely distressed, though makes no sudden movement to question Lena, or to rise from the bed again. She shakes her head, but then faces the ceiling – closes her eyes and nods minutely. She does remember, although just acknowledging that brings a dull headache to the forefront of her brow. The pain sharpens the more that she questions it, and so she stops; she focuses her attention on the ceiling again, and then the bed, her prone body…

She lifts a hand and stares, much like Lena had, at the unfamiliarity of her natural skin colour.

“I’m here.” The words seem inherently untrue coming from her mouth, and Amélie turns back towards Lena, her gaze unnervingly sharp. It seems to question her – to demand an answer to a question that she hasn’t really asked, and Lena’s stomach flops with the implication.

“Of course you are.”

Amélie’s frown shifts to disdain. She turns her head away as though Lena’s just uttered an awful disappointment; as though she’d never expected to wake from that operation, and she’s none too happy that she has. More likely, Lena wants to believe, she’s wondering how it’s taking Talon so long to take out the rest of Overwatch, when they’re resurrecting their greatest threats without charge.

The thought snags something in her. Both Talon and the charge – the cost of Dr. Ziegler’s seemingly counter-productive endeavor. Her gaze crosses the room again, looking for a sign of another person – of heavy security. Finding none, she lifts her wrists and marvels at their freedom.

The expression she turns on Lena is as much confusion as it is outright disbelief – embarrassment, almost. She’s _mortified_ with the apparent incompetence. All Ziegler had to do was end her life, and she was already on death’s doorstep, it wouldn’t have taken much…

“Why?”

Lena doesn’t understand the question.

In the last hour that Amélie’s slept, she’s had time to think of responses to all the questions post-op Amélie might ask her. _Who am I? Who are you? What am I doing here? When can I leave?_ She’d even factored in Amélie asking her why she’d cared so much to bother saving her, but to question why neither she nor Angela had taken her life…? Her own brow dips into a frown.

“What d’you mean?”

“I’m a threat,” Amélie enunciates, trying to wave a hand, but it goes little further than her hospital bed. “I’m with Talon. I thought you wanted all of us dead.” Her eyes narrow, and a strange kind of coolness settles over her when she acknowledges her body’s current physical weakness. If Lena wanted her dead, then it would be so. “You want information,” she says, wincing her words through a jab of chest pain.

“I’m not going to torture you,” Lena tells her, frown deepening, as though Amélie would even dare think it. “Jesus, I thought it was pretty obvious that I don’t want you dead…”

“Because I’m more use to you alive.”

“ _No_ , because you’re—we’re—” Her jaw clicks painfully, and Lena glances away before rubbing two fingers to the ache. “I wasn’t gonna let you die,” she tells an anonymous wall. “I don’t expect you to devote your life to me, or something, just ‘cause I helped save you. And, trust me, I didn’t go through all of that effort just to tie you up and stick you with hot pokers.”

Amélie’s voice is uncomfortably detached when she responds, and Lena winces in her seat. “That would be a foolish method.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“What do you want, then? Not my life, not information. My cooperation?”

Lena turns back to her with a scowl. “Maybe just a promise to stop being such a prick.”

Amélie’s cool eyes watch her for a moment longer, disinterested, and then return to the ceiling. The argument is having an unfortunate effect on her residual pain medication. The ache in her chest grows as severe as her temper, as though the two are collaborating with Lena in whatever plan she clearly has to drag out Amélie’s discomfort. She sets her jaw until it aches, eyes trained on a fixed spot on the ceiling, willing herself to _endure_ it.

She’s always had a good tolerance for pain. Talon had helped with that—or perhaps _helped_ isn’t the right word. She has no patience to ponder that question just yet, and so she doesn’t. Beside her bed, still on her feet, Lena watches her with obvious displeasure. Every breath she takes is the beginning of a conversation that she cannot start; it must be killing her, Amélie thinks, to be at such a loss for words, stranded in vacuous silence.

Lena’s never been very good at keeping quiet. Amélie remembers that, vaguely, from when they were still friends. That time in her life seems unreal, like a story she could have read in her adolescence, that had resonated with her for a reason she hasn’t yet figured out. If she spoke aloud about that time, Amélie is certain she’d refer to herself in third person, and yet she knows that it was _her_.

A different her – a full Amélie, all the pieces in place, ready for a future that she hopes has been achieved in at least one parallel universe. That Amélie had deserved it, worked hard for it, and Gérard—

She winces out loud when she thinks of his name, as though something hot and sharp has just touched the soft ridges of her mind, trapped in beneath her skull. The pressure against her chest intensifies, an ache that’s turning more severe with Amélie’s spiraling mood, and finally Lena seems to notice.

“Are you—I have notes,” she blurts out, stepping back.

Amélie does not watch her as a document is produced, written neatly in Angela’s printed handwriting. A list of things to check for, little tips, reminders mainly for Lena. Her eyes fall to an indistinct line, read the words ‘ _and if the stitching should discolour…_ ’ and then she promptly rips her gaze away. She holds the note to her chest and refers back to memory, instead. Fruit and fibre, Angela had said.

“Are you hungry? I can make a fruit smoothie if you’re not up to eating. Or maybe just some pain killers? That last lot will be wearing off by now, I bet? Angela’s written here to top you up, if you need it, which she said you would. She left a bottle of them somewhere, if I can just…”

She trails off in her search, putting the paper down, and Amélie releases a breath through her teeth. She feels seething rage setting in unpredictably sudden, and has to breathe carefully to tamper it down again – with little success. She watches Lena busy her way around the room with a barely contained snarl. It makes no sense to her, why Lena would bother, why she’s alive at all, why she hasn’t suffered _enough_ already—

That thought draws her anger in – anchors it to something far heavier. Grief is too easy, and Amélie is suddenly sick with it, like a toddler trying to handle magnified emotion with no words to express how they feel. She clamps a hand against her chest, careful of the tender stitching, and wets her lips.

“I’m not hungry,” she manages, and her voice is tense but controlled. Lena stops what she’s doing; she’s found the bottle of pills, finally, and gives it a little shake as though to ask Amélie if she’d like some. It takes her a moment to reply, having to first swallow down anger and self-pity and a throatful of bile. “No.”

She turns carefully onto one side, after that, wincing with the effort, and cuts Lena off before she can speak again.

“Let me sleep.”

Not that she’d deserve the peace, she feels, but she already knows that Lena isn’t going to deny her.

 

When Amélie wakes again, the pain medication has worn off and her body is stiff and sore.

There’s no sight of Lena, when she manages to turn onto her back again, and the room is as dark as she remembers it ever being. For one groggy moment, she cannot understand why she is lying down, not strapped up in her chair, and why there’s no hard fluorescent lighting prying at her eyelids. She has the distinct feeling of wrongness – too much of it; she cannot put her finger on what exactly, because _nothing_ else feels right.

When she tries to sit, a sharp pain quickly has her giving up.

Panic brushes against the fringes of her mind, threatening to sweep her up. She feels her heart pound inside her chest – _pound, pound_ too quickly, too much, too often – and gasps for breath. The difference is awful; it’s overwhelming and too obvious that she is no longer herself, that another terrible experimentation has been performed, that her body has been pried gently apart and pieced together again in the wrong order.

Her mind, however, feels strangely free. She panics the way a newborn panics when they’re not swathed in a blanket, limbs tucked in tight to mimic the womb. Her thoughts have too much room, too much reach; one leads on to ten more, and those ten to another twenty, each. Her own voice has never been so loud inside her head.

And in all of this, a memory.

It’s like a scratch at the corner of her mind that she cannot quite make out – blurred, dream-like. Had it been a dream? She can’t remember the last time she’d had one. There’s a kind of familiarity when she imagines the old factory – too much detail for her to have made it up, with its missing walls and its one good light. She can see herself there, as she was before, but not alone. Lena is there with her, kissing her, making love to her mouth – almost stopping her heart.

Just the thought of it has her chest pounding; her heart is so loud, now, she can hear it through her skin. Like a drum beat, counting something down, or building something up, she’s not yet sure. It increases when she tries to sit up again, and even through the pain, Amélie forces herself upright. Lena should be here and she isn’t. Before Amélie can work out whether or not that’s a good thing, she slips both legs over the edge of the bed and lets her body drop.

Her landing is unsteady, but after a few moments standing with her hands on the bed, she can walk slowly without aid. Her feet are bare and the floor is cold – ice cold, colder than it should be, as though she’s stepped outside in winter. She makes it to the door in too many steps, but it’s darker out in the corridor, and she worries for a moment that she won’t know where she’s going.

And how would she?

She remembers this building, vaguely, the floors and its faces. All old memories, time-worn, frayed. Even when she’d walked among them, here, she hadn’t mapped every floor. The corridor has a left and a right, and the decision stalls her. She grips the door frame, uncertain, and finally chooses left. It only takes her a few steps to reach a corner, and the corridor plunges into almost total darkness around it. It shouldn’t frighten her. She knows how to live her life in shadow – it has been essential, these last few years, for her survival and her work.

Now, as she peers into the darkness, she has the unsettling realisation that she is no longer the most dangerous person to belong to the night.

The thought pauses her, and while there’s a strike of instinctual fear, there is also something… oddly settling about it. She steps around the corner slowly, one arm wrapped around her ribs, and another outstretched. She keeps her fingers to the wall, guiding herself the only way that she’s able, and slips into the dark as inconspicuously as a drop of rain is swallowed by a lake.

 

She’s not walking for long before she sees a light.

It is dim, likely not running on the building’s main generator, but it is steady and present in the dark. An exit sign. Amélie stops beneath it and stares. The dim green of it illuminates the door beneath where it’s placed – the barred handle that takes too much effort for her to press down onto in order to get the door open – and then a stairway.

Amélie tires before she can get up the first set of stairs. She pauses halfway, gripping the banister, the only sound being the way her heaving breaths ricochet off the shadows. She continues up for another three, and reaches the top floor sweaty and out of breath, the ache in her chest tripled from what it had been when she’d woken, but that’s okay. The pain is steadying. She’s slept too much, already, and it’s keeping her awake.

Another door much the same as the one downstairs lies ahead of her, its handle stiffer, here. Amélie presses down on it with as much of her body weight as she can manage, and the door squeals as it’s opened. She stumbles out onto the roof with only her grip on the door keeping her upright – into cold and biting wind. For a moment, all she can do is clench her eyes closed as the wind drags up both her hospital gown and her hair.

Walking against the wind, she wraps both arms around her and tries again to open her eyes. It’s lighter than it is indoors, at least, with the moon wide and bright above her. It illuminates the rooftop, and standing there, uncertain of what it is she’s supposed to be doing, Amélie’s gaze darts around at every point of advantage – a ledge to hang from; a wall to shield herself behind; the closest rooftop, too far away to make the jump without her grappling hook.

The door clangs against its frame behind her, startling her from her thoughts, but it does not close.

There’s a railing around the roof, half-hearted but there; Amélie doesn’t remember it ever being in use, in the short time that she’d been here. No helicopter pad, no garden. It’s as inconspicuous as any she’s come across, hiding the goldmine beneath it like an old war bunker beneath a hill. She steps towards the railing without taking a hold of it, both arms around her chest, shivering and aching.

Wind drags her hair out of her face, makes her eyes water and sting.

Beneath her, the city is like a poster, all little lights and busy lives. She stares down at moving headlights and tries to imagine the people inside the cars, what lives they live, where they’ll be going, who they’ll be greeted by when they reach their destinations, but she can’t. It feels remarkably unreal, from such a height, like one of those virtual reality games that were popular with her students, once upon a time. She wonders, if she fell, would it be like dying or would she simply reawaken in that hospital bed, doomed to restart the entire arduous journey up here?

It would be too easy to find out. A little step.

Amélie takes the railing, now, with another step forward, looking directly over the ledge. It’s not a drop that can be survived.   

That’s how Lena finds her, standing quietly in the doorway, caught between horror and that same sense of unreality – like what she’s seeing can’t possibly be real. Like she couldn’t have just helped save Amélie’s life, for her to end it like this, in front of her, as quietly and effortless as walking into the air.

She tries to scream, or reach forward, or move. She feels as though she’s trapped inside a dream again, a dream that she knows is a dream, and her body is no longer cooperating, holding her down, dragging at her feet. Amélie looks like a bird about to take flight, leaning into the wind, sizing up the air currents.

It happens in slow motion.

Amélie takes a breath, fills her lungs as though to test how much air she can fit inside them, and steps back.

That strange dreamlike quality to the world is popped like a bubble, and Lena’s pounding heart is the pin. Like a timid animal, she steps out of the doorway, one foot at a time towards the edge. She’s never had a fear of heights before, and yet her stomach twists and bubbles uncomfortably as she nears.

Amélie doesn’t spook when she stops beside her. She does not turn to acknowledge her, either, but Lena knows that she’s been seen. She grips the railing with both hands and stares down at the spot on the ground where she supposes Amélie would have landed, if she’d have landed at all.

(She couldn’t die – not after all this. Lena sooner expects that she’d have gone up, up into the air, rather than dropped like a rock.)

Beside her, Amélie’s voice is quiet, like a noise wind-carried from somewhere far in the past, or the future, Lena isn’t certain.

“I’m alive,” she says, like it’s something that she has to accept – make peace with.

“You deserve to live,” Lena tells her, watching her face and the way that Amélie’s eyes close, for just a moment, as though she’s hurt her. Lena doesn’t know if she has. She’s about to argue – to assure Amélie about second chances and futures, the kind of things that she thinks would work for her, had their situation been reversed. Amélie speaks before she has the chance.

“Yes, I do.” She falls quiet again, but there is something about the cadence of her voice that unsettles Lena, has her refusing to look away. “I do deserve this life, after all that’s happened—that I’ve _done_. It seems only fair, doesn’t it? Like the only way I can make up for it is to live with it, carry it, let it fester in me the way that his body rots in the ground.” She closes her eyes, pressing back the tears that threaten to rim against her lashes. “The way all of them do.”

She turns to Lena and remembers, with an upsurge of sudden longing, the assignment that had been placed on her vanity table the night that this had all begun. Every muffled thought tunes itself to this one, like a crowd of voices chanting the same words, like all their heartbeats tuned to hers and beating just as quickly. She could still go through with it. Lena has nothing, up here, but her chronal accelerator, and Amélie already knows the pattern with which she uses it.

All she’d need is those few seconds of delay that it takes for it to recharge – a recharge that would come seconds too late, when Lena’s body has already hit the floor where she herself had imagined her body falling beneath them. She feels the urge like a finger in her back, pushing her forward, jabbing the assignment into her the way that he never had to.

And yet she knows, even with Lena disembodied in the parking lot beneath her, Talon would not come to pick her up, to put her mind back into their tight control. She doubts that they even could, anymore. That they wouldn’t just shoot her on sight, for all she knows. But, if there was a chance… Amélie longs for it, for a return to something easy, when she no longer has to be accountable for what she’s done.

Like stepping over the edge of the rooftop – not dealing with it, refusing the guilt, ignoring the pain she’s caused.

She knows it’s not going to happen, even if just the thought fills her with a kind of comfort.

In all of this, Lena finally manages to swallow down the lump in her throat at Amélie’s words. She steps closer, as though only just feeling the cold herself, and shifts her hands nearer to Amélie’s on the railing, without touching them. “It doesn’t have to be a prison sentence,” she says, not denying that it will be hard. She turns to Amélie until she meets her gaze. “You deserve recovery, too, you know? I wouldn’t have done all this if I didn’t think you did.”

Amélie is quiet for a moment.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” she asks, and Lena shakes her head.

In a moment, Amélie sees the life that she could lead by staying here, hiding in this building – recovering, maybe – all with Lena’s help. She wants to grasp for it too quickly, like a child with a gift, over-eager. It would be _easy_. But maybe that’s okay. If she’s doing it for a good cause. Lena is good, the warmest person Amélie thinks she’s ever met; she wouldn’t lie to her. It’s a flimsy image of her future and Amélie doesn’t know if she can trust it – but she can trust _that_ , at least, that Lena would not lie to her about deserving a second chance.

It makes her stomach hurt, to think of it, of who she is and who she could become. To think of Lena and her inevitable disappointment when Amélie does not return to the woman who she was. Life has mistreated and misshaped her, and there’s no return to that old mould. Lena must know that. Amélie wonders if she’s giving her too much credit.

But being with her up here, inside the real world and yet so far removed from it, Amélie wonders if it really matters that she doesn’t quite know herself right now. Maybe she’ll never really find that out, and maybe that’s okay – being with Lena makes it okay, makes it feel a lot like level footing, even if Amélie doubts it ever will be. Up on this rooftop with her, though, she feels as though they’re just two women – hurting, grieving, but anonymous in a world that hurts and grieves the same, beneath them.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be anything more, just yet.

It’s a comforting thought.

“Shall we go inside?” Lena asks her, her voice as soft and inviting as a warm, outstretched hand.

Amélie nods her head.


	9. Ghosting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm so sorry for how long you've had to wait for this chapter - moving house was ridiculously tiring, and the wifi wasn't actually much of a problem in the end. I'm hopefully back on track with the slow burn, now, but thank you so much for sticking with this. All the support has been lovely - ya comments make my day.
> 
> Huge thanks to keelahh, again, for the beta!

Lena falls asleep with ease.

It’s not a feat within itself, but more of a side-effect of her poor sleeping schedule. When she wakes again, it’s almost noon and there’s little light filtering in through the break room’s closed blinds. Her body protests as she stretches and stands from the old sofa, a thin sheet protecting her from years of dust, and her blanket already on the floor from where she’d tossed and turned in her sleep.

The night had been surreal and strange, and now reality breaks in with the sunlight, too hard and too bright and far too focused.

Lena rubs at her eyes and yawns. She’s standing in the middle of the old medbay’s break room in nothing but her pants and a thin t-shirt. She looks around herself, at the room that looks too barren and too dull, as though she’s woken before 5am and come downstairs before Angela got in for work.

And yet, caught in that strange place between familiarity and unfamiliarity, everything still feels so normal. _Too_ normal.

Lena adjusts her chronal accelerator – scratches beneath its straps, beneath her shirt, and then just beneath the elasticated hem of her pants, blunt nails treading through coarse hair. Her eyes find the door, and she knows just outside of it, Amélie will be sleeping in the same hospital bed that she’d left her in. It’s very possible that she’d have left in the night – that she’d have made that same trip up to the roof, even – and yet Lena knows that she hasn’t.

 _Feels_ it.

She’s as certain as she is that the sun will reach its peek within the next hour, and then begin its steady decline to the west. Mornings do that, for her. Make reality hard and stable and concrete again. Night’s different – something special about it, about seeing the moon and all those stars, and Widowmaker’s silhouette somewhere on a too-high rooftop. Like the two sides of a coin – they belong to one whole, but the two’ll never meet, never match, never have the same truth to tell.

Last night, Amélie could have flapped her arms and flown off the rooftop, and Lena wouldn’t have questioned it. This morning, she’s sleeping in that hospital bed – hard truth, no question, no alternative.

After re-dressing in jeans and a tank, Lena gathers a jug of water to take in to Amélie. She considers bringing her a plate of breakfast, too, but changes her mind. Angela had said Amélie may well have very little appetite upon awakening, and Lena’s got no reason to doubt that. Still, she should eat. She’ll make sure to ask Amélie what she wants, then, as that makes it less likely that food will go to waste.

She runs her hands through her hair before she leaves the breakroom, stretches again, and rubs at a pain in her back. Then, taking the jug, she opens the door.

 

It’s a small miracle that Amélie is still here, probably, and yet Lena can’t find it in herself to be surprised. She hesitates maybe a step or two, a moment of pleased hesitation, _oh_ , like she’s just been handed back a halfway decent test result.

Amélie is propped up in bed on three pillows, and peeking down the neck of her hospital gown to where her chest is newly bandaged. When she spots Lena’s entrance, she releases the gown by the collar and lowers her hand. “I don’t want to stay here,” she says, her first words of the morning, crackling with obvious dehydration.

“It’s the safest place for you,” Lena counters, bringing her jug of water over towards Amélie’s bedside table. She fills the glass there and passes it on. Amélie takes it with an impassive hand and turns away to take a long sip; the water clings to her upper lip afterwards and she wipes it away with her thumb. “Angela agreed.”

“I don’t need hiding away, I don’t need your protection.” She turns to Lena with eyes both sleepy and sharp, as though she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep, and she’s _pissed_. “I don’t want it.”

 _I don’t care_ , Lena thinks, but bites her tongue. Instead: “If Talon gets a hold of you—”

“Let them try.”

“Oh, they’ll do more than try, love, and something tells me there won’t be anything like this waiting for you when they do.” A scoff catches in Amélie’s throat, tampered down only by another mouthful of water – like dousing a fire. “Just—a week, alright? Wait a week, let your body recover, and if you don’t want my help after that, then fair enough. I know this is probably the last place you want to be stuck, and with me, but... you’re weak, right now. Vulnerable. You need to accept that, and you _need_ some time to get back on your feet, and even then—”

She stops herself when Amélie’s gaze narrows, an obvious disagreement on the tip of her tongue, and changes direction, instead.

“A week,” she says, emphasizes, because at the very least Amélie should be able to walk out of here with half a chance of surviving whatever’s waiting for her in the outside world. “Just one week. Please? And then I won’t stand in your way if you wanna spider-web right out the window.”

Amélie’s mouth purses, slightly hollowing her cheeks. She looks ready to disagree on principle, and Lena wouldn’t be surprised – expects it to happen, too, if only because she can’t really imagine what it would be like, living here with her, secluded away from the outside world, like they’re camping or running away from home.

“A week,” Amélie agrees. “And don’t expect I’ll let you nurse me.”

“Ha,” Lena scoffs, leaning one hand against the back of the bedside chair. “You think I could nurse anyone? Make the tea and toast, maybe, but that’s about it. Hey, speaking of, you should really eat something. How are you feeling? I think maybe you’re due some more of those painkillers by now?”

Amélie’s fingers tighten around her glass. She’d made a mistake to agree – a week of this, of Lena’s incessant questions, of _tea and toast_ , of a reminder of the life she was stolen from, of the _people_ who never even bothered to take her back, all of it around every corner—

“Amélie?”

“Painkillers,” finally, harshly. The words come out chewed up and ground out, hard and gravelly, clearly frustrated. Lena rights herself, no longer leaning against the chair, and nods her head as she takes a step backwards in retreat. A look crosses her brown eyes that’s too much like fear – too much like uncertainty, like _doubt_ – and Amélie’s stomach drops, whether it has any right or reason to.

She can’t pinpoint the emotion exactly, but it doesn’t feel good. She doesn’t feel good. She bites hard at the inside of her cheek and closes her eyes, turns her head away. “Please,” she adds, too quiet and yet she won’t repeat it.

Lena’s response comes moments later, with footsteps creeping back towards the bed, and the feeling of her presence beside her – of a warmth that Amélie could reach out towards, if she wanted to, if she had the nerve.

“’Course,” Lena says, and when Amélie opens her eyes, two little pills fall into her hand. “I’ll let you rest, alright? I have stuff to do upstairs, so… but if you need anything, I’m pretty sure the alarms here are still working.” She gestures towards the emergency bedside alarm, a little red button on the wall, just within arms’ reach of the bed’s occupant. “And I’ll see about getting some hot water on. A bath might be out of the question for a while, but I’ll make sure you can still wash.”

It's said like a promise, too earnest, like a child trying to convince their mother – a _please_ , _I’ll take good care of it_.

Amélie swallows the pills down with one large mouthful of water, returns the glass to the bedside table, and lies down. At her side, Lena hesitates a moment before realizing that she won’t get a response. She backs away slowly, and then quicker, pausing only once at the door to look in.

“You should really eat something later,” she whispers too loudly, and then leaves.

 

 

Her old room looks different.

Missing certain things, definitely, but Lena remembers taking those – that’s not the shock of it. The curtains are drawn, but Lena’s never short of light. Her chronal accelerator gives the room a ghostly sheen, like something unreal, as though she’s looking in from the other side of a mirror, or the wrong side of reality.

That’s nothing new, either.

She treads carefully, her shoes soft against the floor, leaving behind a trail of dusty footprints that lead towards the centre of the room. She stops there, pivots in place – takes it in. She’d spent a good few years here, before. The room was just one of a handful, furnished for a comfortable but temporary stay. Overwatch had called in people from all over the world – those who came to visit would stay in rooms like these, for weeks or a month, or however long their business here took them, before they could fly back home.

Lena had started out the same, too.

They’d given her the room as a temporary fix while she found a place to live. Winston had been more than accommodating, even when she’d dragged her feet, but she’d liked her little flat once she’d found it. She wasn’t new to living on her own, but it was different, in a new country, doing new work. Just being a part of Overwatch had made her feel _changed_ – bigger than herself, in a lot of ways, but capable.

Every day held a promise, in her work and in this new country, with new people, and Lena had drank it in. She’d taken as much of it as she could, gorged herself like a kid at a dessert table, needing to stick their finger in every pie, cake frosting, and jelly, if just to see which tasted better – and then being delighted when everything tasted as good as the last mouthful.

If she could go back, Lena wouldn’t change a thing about that time. She’d taken every opportunity, gone on every adventure that was offered to her. She’d made the most of it, of life, of her work, as though she’d _known_ that it was going to change.

And it had.

Glancing down, she’s almost used to the way that the blue of her accelerator strains her eyes. It no longer hurts – no longer freaks her out when she lifts a hand to reach for something, and her shadow casts a terrifying talon across a wall. She’s even become used to the ache of it – the way that the straps pinch at her soft skin, or itch after a shower, and ache beneath her body if she ever turns the wrong way in her sleep.

It’s an ever-present discomfort that waxes and wanes as she goes through her day, and it always will be.

No point worrying about it, she thinks, when it’s never going to change.

“Right.” She huffs out a breath so loud that it could probably blow the thoughts right out of her brain, and then glances around her again, at the dust layering every surface. “Gotta make a start somewhere.”

 

By the time she’s finished cleaning herself up, it’s just gone noon.

Having become so adjusted to her own company in the last hour or so, Lena doesn’t initially realise how alone she is upon returning to the medbay. She swings a laundry basket filled with old sheets up onto a table hard enough to clatter a clipboard and a bottle of pills, and then turns to Amélie, mouth open, her words almost out.

“A-Amélie?”

Lena does a full three-sixty before the bottom of her stomach gives out, spilling the hard knot of tension in her guts into instant panic. Not knowing where to turn first, she glances back the way she’d came while taking two steps towards the break room, and then skips three seconds ahead into the doorway. The door clatters against her shoulder and elbow, forced open, and a quiet gasp is all that roots Lena back in place.

Amélie is standing before her, half-bent over a glass of orange juice, and clutching at her hospital gown. The draft from Lena’s sudden entrance sends a corner of the back flapping up, and Lena’s cheeks burn as she tears her eyes away from the momentary reveal of a bare thigh.

“A-ah, here you are,” she forces out, attempting to look elsewhere, until her sheepish gaze falls back on Amélie’s face. “Thought you might have actually jumped out of a window for a second.” She only realises what she’s said once it’s out; it hadn’t been a window that she’d been worried about, yesterday, with Amélie standing toe-to-toe with a sheer drop, but the same risk is clearly implied. By the expression on Amélie’s face, Lena knows she’s picked up on it, too.

 _Fantastic_.

There’s a stern pout to Amélie’s lips that narrows her face and draws a potent focus to her pointed nose. The tension in her mouth slowly releases as Lena steps into the room, but the rest of her body remains fixed in place – vaguely straightening, but little else. She appears to have been caught doing something, and a quick glance at the table concludes what. There’s a half chopped banana, as though a full one would be too much to stomach, and a broken cracker that has clearly had a chunk taken out of it.

She’s eating, then, is Lena’s assumption, and a thread of tension releases from her shoulders.

“You could’ve had something proper, if you wanted,” she tells Amélie, who only seems to relax now that she’s certain Lena isn’t angry with her. “You don’t have to sneak about in here.” She says it like it’s a joke, and it certainly feels like one – or something sharper, pointed too close towards Amélie’s throat, reminding her of the time she’d been welcome here, and consequently making her feel everything but.

Amélie takes a step backwards, deflects, surrenders the table and the meagre lunch up to Lena. Her stomach hurts, anyway. She could likely only swallow another mouthful.

Seeing the impending retreat, Lena fumbles for a white flag.

“I brought some clothes for you,” she blurts out, and Amélie pauses – hesitates. Her expression is unreadable for several seconds, and then… uncertain. “Oh, not really any of _mine_ ,” Lena clarifies, giving Amélie an automatic once-over. “Something that’ll fit you—should do, anyway.”

Amélie raises a delicate brow, unconvinced. “Did you size me up while I slept?”

“Didn’t need to,” Lena shrugs, ignoring the bait. “I’ve left them upstairs – in an actual room, if you want it. The bed’s gotta be comfier than that cot, and I won’t be too far from you. If you need anything, that is. It’s the second room – has a number on the door, you can’t miss it.”

When Amélie neither moves nor verbally accepts the offer, Lena wets her lips and frowns. “A week, yeah? You should have your own room for that, at least, and there’s plenty of them upstairs that are just gathering dust. Or, they were – I-I’ve cleaned them now, I mean.” She sets her hands on her hips, grounding herself in a determination that she isn’t yet feeling, and sighs. “How about I show you around – give you a proper look at the place?”

Amélie continues to watch her coolly, impassively. “A tour?”

“Kinda, yeah, I guess it will be.”

There’s a hesitancy in Amélie’s eyes that isn’t purely reluctance. She looks uncertain, and it takes Lena a moment to realise that it’s _of her_ , or her intentions, more likely, in taking a known Talon-operative through Overwatch’s once-Headquarters. As though she’s baiting her, handing it to her on a platter, wondering if she will take it – a _test_ to see if she’s herself, or not herself, or whoever Talon made her. The boundaries between those distinctions are frighteningly faint.

“I… just to see the place, for something to do,” Lena tries. “A little exercise might do you well, as long as we don’t do too much. Maybe you’ll even feel like eating some more, afterwards?”

A short sigh, and Amélie glances down at her hospital gown, at her own lackluster ponytail. “There’s hot water now?” she asks, eyes straying to the vaguely damp ends of Lena’s hair. When she receives an encouraging nod in reply, Amélie offers one in return. “Then show me this room; I’d like to change.”

 

 

Lena waits outside for her.

Feels weird about it, too, as she paces back and forth and then pauses to listen to the silence on the other end of the door. It worries her until she realises that Amélie can probably hear _her_ out here, pacing, waiting, counting her steps. She sighs and carries herself a ways down the hallway, letting her chronal accelerator light the way.

She still hasn’t turned on any emergency lights, and wonders now if she should. Amélie might agree to take a walk around the building with her, but if she wants to leave at any point, and can’t safely find her way back… Lena’s not so sure Angela would fly out here again if Amélie had another heart attack, never mind if she fell down a step in the dark and broke her wrist.

Still, there’s a sense of safety that comes with the darkness, with the silence and the years of dust, too. Nobody would think to look here for them. They could probably stay here for months, if they had to, sneaking in and out, growing pale and comfortable in the dark. There’s an appeal to it, too, that Lena hadn’t really expected. But when faced with the alternative – with _out there_ , and Talon, and _Overwatch_ , it feels like a necessity.

One that they shouldn’t rely on, as tempting as that is, but still well-deserved.

The quiet click of an opening door draws Lena away from her thoughts. She turns towards the noise, and her stomach does something funny when Amélie steps past the threshold, dressed in tight dark leggings and a hoodie that Lena had thrown in on a whim – something that hangs off Amélie’s slight frame, used to accommodating the bulk of her chronal accelerator.

Something that still smells like her, of her flat and her life, and now Amélie has her arms through the sleeves of it – has it wrapped around her like she knows it wasn’t a new purchase, but she doesn’t care. Lena feels her cheeks turn hot. It’s a strange sense of intimacy; she feels her blood warm and quick through her veins, and has to take a moment to remember how to speak.

“Right then,” she chirps, her voice sounding strangely distant to her own ears. “Let’s get going.”

 

They make it three corridors down without speaking.

Amélie does not stray further than her side, her shadow occasionally encroaching on the accelerator’s light to cast dark shapes in their path, before she retreats a step and lets the light shine through. Lena bites the inside of her mouth as she walks, wanting to speak and not wanting to say anything, but the longer that the silence goes on, the more comfortable she grows with it.

Eventually, she releases the tender flesh between her teeth and accepts it.

The tour doesn’t take them far. They’ve already gone down one set of stairs, and Lena is mindful of having to walk back up them again. She turns to Amélie at one point, tells her, “let me know if we need to slow down,” but receives no reply. She takes that as a good sign, even as she slows her pace when they go through the next door.

“This used to be the gym,” Lena says as they enter one hall.

It’s wide and dark and her voice echoes when she speaks. “There’s probably still some equipment here.” She squints into the darkness, the hall so large that her faint blue glow cannot reach the other end, and then hears Amélie’s footsteps tap-tapping away from her.

She turns to follow, providing a light, as Amélie steps up towards a large containment. It’s almost room-sized, tucked into the corner of the gym like an annex, with windows in every wall. Curious, Amélie steps up to one and peers inside. It’s difficult to see, without Lena there to light it up, but she thinks she makes out the distinct frame of a bed without a mattress, a table, and maybe even a set of drawers.

There’s no gym equipment in the room that she can see – no specialized training gear, and no clear reason for the room’s existence. Stepping back, her eyes fall towards the door, and she cannot help but press her fingers to the vice-like locking device attached there.

“A prison?” she asks, clearly surprised.

“No, not quite,” Lena tells her, and her voice sounds far away, even for the short distance between them. Amélie turns into it, frowning, glaring against the blue of her accelerator. Lena’s footsteps echo as she steps up to Amélie’s side, her own eyes tracking down towards the lock, although she doesn’t reach a hand to it as Amélie had. “Winston built it for me.”

“For _you_?”

“Before he made this,” Lena clarifies, touching her chronal accelerator, and Amélie’s frown recedes with understanding. “Couldn’t have me disappearing for weeks on end, he said.”

“How long did you stay in this?”

It’s not just curiosity fueling the question, although there is plenty of that. Amélie almost seems to be searching for something, for an answers other than the one she’s asked for, and Lena isn’t sure what to tell her. She isn’t sure what she has to prove.

“A few months,” she shrugs. “Maybe a bit longer.”

Amélie nods her head, and that look of outright determination leaves her eyes. Lena searches for something to say, for a way to direct Amélie’s interest back to her, or not her, but to the line of questioning that had brought out an expression on her face other than quiet discontent. She wets her lips and turns to Amélie, and tries not to stutter when she speaks.

“It’s… it felt like a prison. Only, if I left it, I’d probably have disappeared for another two weeks. Maybe longer – maybe for good. I don’t know what happened when I went down, but I should’ve died in the crash. Everybody said it, like it was a miracle that I’d survived it, but it wasn’t – it was an accident. I wasn’t supposed to be alive, I don’t know how I still am, but the second I take this thing off…”

She turns back to her chronal accelerator and sighs, shrugs her shoulders.

“It still feels a little bit like a prison – and I’m grateful, I am, I’m so thankful that Winston gave me a second chance, that he didn’t give up on me, but…” She looks to Amélie, beseeching, willing her to understand something that just doesn’t click into place.

“Why are you telling me this?” Amélie asks, not rudely. There’s a meaning here – a message – and she’s missing it.

“Because,” Lena says, and takes a breath, “I don’t regret what Angela and I did to you. I still believe we saved your life, that you’d have died without that operation, and that that would’ve been a damn tragedy if it’d happened. But that doesn’t… it doesn’t mean I’ve improved your life,” she sighs out. “Talon took you from your life and changed you and didn’t give you a choice, but… Angela and I… _I_ did the same thing to you.”

She looks to Amélie with wide eyes, as though expecting instant agreement, except Amélie’s expression remains composed. Considerate. She blinks once – twice – and then lifts her chin ever so slightly in acknowledgement.

“You gave me a choice,” she says, and Lena’s cheeks turn a faint pink.

“You were in a lot of pain and very suggestible. I think you might have agreed to anything if I promised it’d stop that pain. That’s what I’m trying to get at, though. I still believe that whatever life you can have now is a hundred times better than what you had, I do, but I know it’s going to be harder. I mean, look at you now, stuck in here with me, healing from heart surgery, and Talon’s out there… waiting, maybe. Looking for you, even.

“We can’t stay in here forever. A week – a month, longer, if we need to, if you want that, but we have to go out there at some point. You have to go back out there at some point, and face all of that. I just…” She rubs a knuckle against one eye, drops her head for a moment – gathers herself. When she looks up again, Amélie’s neutral expression has not shifted. She’s unreadable, expressionless, and it makes Lena’s stomach turn.

“I did what I thought was best for you, and maybe it is, but I made that decision for you. I as good as forced you into this position, and I can’t say it’ll get any better, once you leave here. And I’m… I’m sorry, Amélie. I just got so carried away with _saving_ you, I didn’t consider that I’d only put you in a different kind of danger.”

Amélie is quiet for a moment. She seems underwhelmed by Lena’s announcement, and a kind of mortified frustration burns up Lena’s cheeks when she receives no instant acknowledgement. Finally, a contemplative look crosses Amélie’s face, and she turns her eyes down to the accelerator until the blue of it turns her eyes near-green.

“Is that how you felt, when Winston gave you this?” she asks, and Lena turns to it in surprise – in impatience, almost. “Like he’d saved you, only to put you in another kind of danger.”

Another lick of heat – Lena’s palms begin to sweat. “That makes me sound ungrateful,” she says, almost whines it, and sighs again. “Not—not exactly. I mean, in different ways, not quite like that. It’s… not the easiest thing to live with, and it really wasn’t easy to get here, but I don’t regret it. It let me stay at Overwatch and fight and do good, and it let me— _meet people_ who are important to me, now. I’m glad it happened, but—”

“This is different,” Amélie concludes for her, and Lena, losing her wind, nods her head. “It is different.”

“I know.”

Amélie seems to chew over her next words, as though she has too many thoughts and isn’t sure which to give voice to first. Her brow furrows with concentration, her jaw tense, but finally just a short sigh makes it past her lips. She closes her eyes briefly, as though warding off a headache, and when she opens them again, her fatigue is strikingly obvious.

“I feel like a ghost,” she says, eventually, whispers it out although it loses no strength even with the lacking volume. “I was here one moment, and gone the next. Now it’s happened again.”

A curious glint shines across Lena’s eyes. She looks, for a moment, as though she’s going to ask Amélie a question that she isn’t sure she wants to face. She must see the clear reluctance in her face – the silent plea – as she swallows down whatever questions she wanted to ask; she welcomes back that silence, and Amélie is grateful for it – is almost shocked by her own relief.

“It’s different,” she tells Lena again, quietly but firmly, because that’s all she can say on the matter without having to think too hard about it. “I’ve had enough of this, let’s stop. I think I’m hungry – I’d like to try to eat”

“Okay,” Lena agrees, and shines a light back on the way that they’d come.


	10. You've Got a Goddamn Nerve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super quick update that has not seen a beta and is probably filled with mistakes, but I'm rushing! I'll be back to edit them out at some point, but for now:
> 
> Here's the birthday chapter I promised on tumblr! 
> 
> Now, I'm off to get drunk and pretend this is halfway coherent. Seriously, I'll fix it all up at some point!
> 
> Title comes from FKA Twigs' In Time. I told you there'd be a playlist by the end of this fic...

That first day, Amélie is quiet.

She watches as Lena prepares their lunch, and takes her meagre plateful back into the medbay to eat. Lena watches her go with a vague sense of hesitancy, but makes herself comfortable on the couch. Amélie is quick in her retreat, hungry, like a cat who’s spent too long in a shelter – protective of its food, aggressive.

Lena gives her the rest of the afternoon to herself.

She has laundry to do, and phone calls to make, and the exercises that keep her leaping form rooftop to rooftop. She showers again, afterwards, and lets her hair air-dry until it’s soft and curling the wrong way. She makes dinner, a salad, and adds too much meat to her own portion. She eats it in the break room, and Amélie in the medbay, and like that they dance around each other until it’s dark.

When Lena goes to check on Amélie again, it’s well into the night and with a timid knock to her designated bedroom’s door.

There’s no reply on the other side – no sound of shifting footsteps or the squeaking frame of a disturbed bed. Lena doesn’t bother waiting. She makes a quiet retreat to her own room, strips and changes into something to sleep in, and then climbs onto bed.

It’s strange dreams that find her, with Amélie so close.

It’s a stranger reality that she wakes up to, still.

 

The temperature spikes mid-week.

A gale hammers against the poorly maintained windows, buzzing against the seams, whining like a too-large swarm of bees. Rain comes next, for three straight days, with intermittent thunder and lightning that Lena and Amélie only ever catch a peek of through the cracks in the blinds. By the time the storm lifts, the two of them have grown sallow-cheeked and dark-eyed, and comfortable in the dark.

 

The morning after their first week at Overwatch HQ, Lena breakfasts alone.

It’s not a surprise.

Except, Amélie neither comes to collect her food, nor seems to leave her room to eat at all. Lena manages three hours before she goes to check on her, but it’s noon, already, and she hasn’t surfaced at all. A brief thought of an infection or a sudden reaction to her surgery carries her footsteps quickly up a flight of stairs, and down the corridor to the living spaces.

(That she could have left without saying goodbye is also an option, and one Lena heartily refuses. She quickens her pace, all the same.)

Amélie doesn’t answer when she knocks the first time, a tray of food balanced on one hand, and so Lena knocks again. Harder.

There’s a sound on the other side of the door that is worryingly faint – a struggling groan, as if someone’s in pain – and Lena reacts without thought. She presses down on the handle and is already two steps into the bedroom before she realises that Amélie isn’t dying, but swaddled in two blankets and looking very, very unhappy.

Though that isn’t quite the word for it, Lena muses in the seconds that it takes for her thoughts to process. _Hateful_ fits the bill better, and with that acknowledgement Lena wonders if she shouldn’t have just left the tray of food outside the door.

“H-hey,” she says, a little breathless, as Amélie’s drowsy stare shifts between the food and her face. “Sorry, didn’t mean to just burst in here like that, I was just—brought you something to eat, seeing as you didn’t come down.” She pauses for a moment, takes in Amélie’s sickly pallor, and frowns. “Are you feeling alright?”

Exhausted by the question, Amélie’s head hits the pillow again. She closes her eyes and exhales loudly. At length, she explains, as though these three words should expel Lena from the room with their importance, “I was sleeping.”

“Oh,” Lena says, for want of anything else. “It’s lunch, almost. Don’t you want to try and eat something?” A muscle twitches on Amélie’s cheek, and Lena takes a step further into the room, close enough to set the tray down on the dressing table. “There’s juice here, too. I wasn’t sure if you were still taking these painkillers, but I brought some up, anyway, just in case.”

“No,” Amélie breathes, her voice weak enough that Lena could almost think her close to sleep.

“‘No’ you’re not taking them anymore, or n—”

“No,” a little stronger, this time. “ _No_ , I don’t want it.” A word drops past her lips, quick and hushed and French, and Lena’s frown only deepens. When her eyes open again, there’s nothing gentle or drowsy about the gaze that she pins Lena with. “Get out – get out! This is my room, what are you doing here? Do you come here to antagonize me – to gloat? Get _out_.”

She presses a hand to her eyes as though just the sight of Lena is enough to induce a headache, and yet she doesn’t move – does not protest again, does not fight, or shout, or show _any_ indication that she’s going to do more than lie in bed for as long as Lena lets her. It rises something hot and foul in Lena’s belly, in her chest and her throat where an ugly accusation forms.

“You’re not even trying.”

On the bed, undisturbed, Amélie’s chest rises and falls with effort.

“You’re not trying,” Lena says again. “Do you even want to get better? Are you trying to make yourself worse? What—?” She spots a hand coming up, fingers pale and grasping at a blanket, trying to draw it over Amélie’s face. It spikes an anger in her that Lena isn’t prepared for.

She’s by the bed before she can think about what she’s doing, fingers in the blanket, attempting to yank it away from Amélie and so focused on her task that she barely realises that she’s been grabbed herself until Amélie is pulling her down by the shoulder. She lands on top of her, rolls over her body, even squeaks as she presses far too much weight on Amélie’s chest. Finally, she lands beneath her on the bed.

The world stops moving. Lena feels it like a sudden jerk – like whiplash.

She’s on her back and Amélie is looming above her, loose hair spilling over her shoulders as she rises to her knees, hellfire in her eyes. She swings one leg over Lena’s hips and lands heavily, hands on Lena’s shoulders. Lena squeaks again, her arms curling into her own chest.

“Am I not trying hard enough for you, Lena?” she asks, but her voice is too low – is too sweet, is _wrong_ – and Lena’s throat is so tight that it hurts when she swallows. “Am I not making enough _progress_?” It’s a loaded word and Lena doesn’t understand why, but she does not speak. Probably couldn’t, even if she’d had something to say. “Go on, tell me how you’d have done so much better, given the opportunity.”

She laughs at that, but it is strangled and hoarse. It brings tears to her eyes.

“Of course you would have. Especially here, where you belong. But you’d have no reason to, Lena, would you? They’d have come back for you – they wouldn’t have stopped looking until they had you back in your box. Overwatch’s little _hamster_.” She pushes back as she says it, the heels of her hands digging into the tender patch of muscle beneath Lena’s shoulder.

Her body straightens, hands drawing back to her own thighs, but there’s something about the image that stalls her – makes her think. Lena lies beneath her half-petrified with her own outrage, and there’s something… nice about that.

“This is how I had Gérard, did you know?”

Her eyes fall to the chronal accelerator lighting Lena’s chest. It’s wholly in the way, but couldn’t be removed – Amélie wouldn’t chance it. It doesn’t matter; she knows how to be creative. When she looks back up to Lena’s face, there’s a spark in her eyes that is as much rage as it is understanding, and it draws a smirk to Amélie’s lips.

“Am I making you uncomfortable, Lena? Oh, but Gérard wasn’t. He was so relieved that I’d come to him.”

“Shut up.”

“He put his hands right here,” she drags Lena’s arms away from her chest, forces her palms to her hips. “He smiled – he didn’t even _see_ it.” She laughs again and those tears start falling, great globs of them, landing in asymmetrical pairs against Lena’s throat. “He was _smiling_ , Lena, he was _so relieved_. He had no idea what they’d done to me – how could he? He didn’t even try to defend himself!”

Her body shudders with a sob, shivers and shifts against Lena’s hips, and it’s _wrong_. It feels wrong. Lena rips her hands away and shoves at Amélie’s stomach, instead. She doesn’t realise her own force until Amélie lands at the end of the bed, half-curled into herself and panting in pain. She tries to reach for her, apologises, but Amélie halts her with a raised hand.

 _Stop_.

“Stop,” Lena whispers, her own breathing too heavy, her stomach a tight and twisted mess. She sits up and shifts towards the edge of the bed, swinging her legs over the side of it. Her body slumps down into the mattress with an exhaustion years-old and bone-deep. Beside her, facing away, Amélie wipes very slowly at her cheeks.

It’s a strange silence that holds them, but Lena’s used to that, by now.

She knows how to be comfortable with it, when she can, and how to wait it out, when she isn’t.

“I thought you might have ran away,” she whispers, eventually. “Or relapsed. Or something.” She turns to Amélie, but Amélie is still facing away from her – ashamed or frustrated, Lena can’t yet tell. “I’m doing everything I can to help you, Amélie, and I’m sorry, I’m not saying that you’re _not trying_ , but...” Amélie’s chin tilts a fraction, not enough for Lena to see her face, but the gesture speaks volumes.

She doesn’t know what else to say.

Accuse Amélie again and she runs the risk of starting another fight – of Amélie actually leaving, or getting sick, or whatever else could go wrong and probably would. Keep quiet, and the words are inside her like little bugs, wriggling around, biting holes in her stomach, fraying her nerves. Whose comfort is more important, in this situation? How much of an arsehole can she get away with being?

“Why should I?”

It’s a quiet voice, wet with tears that have since stopped and are threatening to spill anew.

“You have no idea,” Amélie whispers, because if she can speak quietly enough, her words might stop shaking. “You don’t know the half of what I’ve done – what I let them do to me. You don’t know. If you did, you wouldn’t have saved my life. I barely understand why you bothered… Gérard was your friend, _like family_ , and after what I did to him…”

“You didn’t _let_ them do anything, they just _did it_. It’s not your fault.”

“It shouldn’t have been so _easy_ for them to do what they did to me. If I was stronger—”

“That’s not fair, it has nothing to do with that.”

“How would you know?” When Amélie turns to her, it’s quick, sharp, the way you turn a knife on somebody, but her eyes are large and brimming with tears. “What do you even know about it? They chose me for a reason, because they saw weakness in me that they could exploit, and they knew it would work. And look at me,” she sighs, puffs it out like a laugh that doesn’t quite make it. “I’ve always been capable of _this_ – of being this monster who does the things I do.”

“ _Did_ ,” Lena insists. “You don’t do that anymore. You’re getting better.”

Amélie sours at that, and Lena’s stomach drops.

“Do you know the first thing I wanted to do when I woke up from the operation, Lena?” she asks her, her voice light, too open, welcoming Lena in like live bait in a trap. Lena lets herself fall into it, accepts the capture – she shakes her head, and Amélie’s expression hardens, vice-like and crushing. “I wanted to go back.”

“That doesn’t mean anything—”

“Doesn’t it? I think I still would, if they found me – if they’d let me.”

“I don’t believe that. I don’t think you do, either.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Amélie tells her, and turns away once again. _Neither do I_. “I still miss it – having a… a tether, something to guide me. I miss being able to do something without having to think about it. I miss not having to care. I’d take that back, if I could; you shouldn’t trust me, Lena. You shouldn’t be protecting me.”

Even as she says it, her throat burns with rising bile. She recognises it as wrong, as morally ill, as _disgusting_ , and the guilt of that awareness makes her body feel heavy and sick. There’s too much truth to her words – they’re too sharp, too clear, like raining shards of glass. She wants to shove them back into her mouth the second she’s let them out, but there is something _freeing_ about voicing her thoughts.

There’s something _nice_ about putting something into the world that’s uglier than herself.

“I feel as though I’ve lived two very different lives,” she says, feeling cathartic. “Now I have neither. I have nothing.” When she turns to Lena, there are no longer tears in her eyes, but her voice is weak with them. “There’s no way to recover from this – not completely. I can only exist like this, hidden away in the dark. It’s barely worth surviving for.”

Lena’s hands clench and unclench in her lap, but she swallows down her initial response – an outburst that couldn’t help the situation any.

“Of course it is,” she says, and she believes it, too, Amélie notices with some regret. “We’re not going to have to live like this forever. I can help you, still, I can get us proper help, and we can go back for the rest of Talon eventually. It’s about time somebody stopped them, properly.”

“And what will you do, Lena? Call in all of Overwatch, re-band, take down the bad guys?”

Lena frowns, her jaw tensing and then relaxing. “Something like that, probably, yeah.”

Amélie does not speak again, but her vacant stare says volumes, and all of it what Lena doesn’t want to hear. She turns her body away, this time, towards the tray that she’d left on the dressing table. She can still feel the faintest impression of Amélie’s hands against her shoulders, pushing her back into the bed. A lingering pressure.

And in all of this, she cannot help but hope that Amélie isn’t just the same – just some lingering impression, like the light you see in the sky long after the star has died, living on borrowed time and destined to disappear silently and effortlessly back into oblivion, unnoticed.

She can’t be. Lena hasn’t gone through all of this trouble just to give her a few more weeks. She isn’t Winston, and god bless him, but this isn’t another quick-fix chronal accelerator.

Lena can see the root of the problem, and they’re being eliminated. There’s no other way.

“Are you going to leave?” she asks, not daring to face Amélie for fear of provoking an answer that she doesn’t want to hear.

There’s silence behind her, but the bed shifts. A pair of legs appear over it, wrapped in loose-fitted pyjama bottoms with little bare feet poking out at the end. Lena stares between the rounded toenails, pretending that she cannot see Amélie looking at her, or feel her gaze on her face. They’ve said too much for it to mean nothing; they’ve _done_ too much for Amélie to walk out of here, today, and straight back into the hands of Talon.

Or worse.

It feels a lot like stalemate, and Lena’s always hated that. She needs to move, needs to run and jump and fly again, but as though time has stopped, so has her body. She sits perfectly still and barely breathes as Amélie watches her, deciding, conferring with herself, perhaps, Lena doesn’t know.

“I’m sorry,” is said, eventually, and Lena does not lift her eyes to Amélie, but turns to see her hands, twisted and threaded together in her lap. She doesn’t ask _what for_ , but Amélie supplies it, anyway. “I haven’t been very kind to you these last few years. You were a good friend, Lena, and not only have I tried to kill you, but the…”

She seems to choke on her next phrase, uncertain of her wording. Lena sees her close her eyes from her peripheral, her hands wringing together in her lap.

“I’ve taken advantage of you. The… _kissing_. I shouldn’t have put you in that situation, I’m sorry I did.”

It’s a little like a lifted weight, and in the sea of pressure that’s baring down on top of her, that isn’t exactly a huge comfort, but Amélie will take it. It feels good to have said it – _better_ – like she’s taken a step in the right direction, even if it’s all uphill from here.

In some small way, it’s a quiet acceptance of her own life, and of the future that she’s so uncertain of – that she deserves, or that she’ll have. If there’s a chance that she’ll make it, however slim, she wants Lena to be in it in any small way that she can be. She’ll make all the reparations in the world to secure that, at least.

Beside her, shifting and suddenly awkward, Lena asks, “That makes you uncomfortable?”

Although the answer is more than obvious.

“It didn’t,” Amélie says, carefully. “Not until I had a chance to think about it – about how I was using you, in the end, to gain something that I hadn’t had in far too long.”

“You know… you didn’t exactly take advantage. I mean, you didn’t do anything that I didn’t want you to. Aside from the attempted murder, you know, could’a done without that.”

Lena winces, glancing away again, but Amélie is suddenly very still and very quiet beside her.

“That,” she says, and Lena can hear the frown in her voice, “isn’t why you saved me, is it?” When Lena turns to her, she sees that that frown is there, small and startled and very, very uncertain. “Because you wanted… something more from me?”

“No, that wasn’t—” She tries to will the pinkness out of her cheeks, with limited results. “I’ve done all of this because we were friends, that’s it. When you… when we got a little _closer_ , I wasn’t exactly sorry, but I’m not stupid, Amélie, I know you’re…” She stops, sighs. “No, I didn’t. I’ve only done this for you, so that you get a chance to actually have a life again. I couldn’t leave you with Talon and do nothing.

“And… well, my feelings aren’t exactly new. I know how to deal with them.”

Beside her, Amélie picks at a loose strand of fabric in her pants. “How long have you…?”

 _Fuck_ , Lena thinks, pretending she isn’t blushing to the tips of her ears.

“A while… when we were still friends.”

“Oh…”

“But—” She hurries to look at Amélie, to reassure her, but where she expects a look of uncertainty (or worse), Amélie appears to be close to smiling. Her expression is gentle, warm, even through the fatigue dragging at her eyes. There’s no disgust on her face, no annoyance, but genuine surprise. “That’s not why I want you to stay, either,” Lena tells her. “We’re friends, aren’t we? That’s all I want.”

Amélie wets her lips, but although her hesitation is brief and almost unnoticeable, she nods her head.

“I want that, also.”

“And we have to work at that, still,” Lena reminds herself, nodding back.

“Yes, we do.”

“Right.” She takes a breath, accepting that, and feeling all the lighter for it. “Then… why don’t I leave you to sleep? I woke you up earlier, and you look like you could use the rest.” _No offense_. The change in Amélie’s expression is surprisingly dramatic; she goes from open to closed off in the space of a second, and struggles to recover again. She seems even faintly embarrassed by her own overly obvious reaction. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m… not finding this room very comfortable.”

Lena looks down to the bed, almost even bounces a little, just to prove how comfortable the mattress is. Old, sure, but barely used. Before she can speak, however, Amélie answers, and there’s a little more colour in her cheeks than before.

“It was fine downstairs. But coming up here… I can’t sleep without waking. Or dreaming. I wake up and forget where I am, and panic, it’s…”

“Not good,” Lena answers for her, and Amélie sighs, but doesn’t disagree. “If you want to sleep downstairs again, you can. I thought it’d be better up here, with your own space, but if that’s not the case then—”

“I think that’s the problem,” Amélie says, very quietly, and Lena frowns as though to ask _how so_. “My own space.”

“You mean you don’t… enjoy being on your own?”

It sounds bizarre, and even as she says it, the colour in Amélie’s cheeks darkens. Her jaw sets and Lena almost apologises, thinking she’s just revoked all the progress they’ve just made, when she realises that it’s just another symptom of Amélie’s embarrassment.

“No.”

It’s said too quietly, as though it’s been forced through her teeth, and it’s probably taken as much effort for Amélie to admit it. It’s the least Lena can do to keep the surprise from her face and accept it. “Okay,” she says, and Amélie looks too tentative when she looks her way. Lena wouldn’t quite call the look _hopeful_ – though, at this point, she can’t begrudge Amélie that, either.

She has to be outrageously bold to make her next suggestion, but Lena thinks that’s the only way Amélie would accept it.

“I’ll stay, then. If you want.”

It’s an invitation, and the longer that it sits between them, the longer that Lena wonders if it’s actually welcome. Amélie is stiff and unmoving, certainly not looking her way. Lena mirrors her position, growing tense, already regretting the offer unti—

“Thank you.”

Amélie shifts before either of them can acknowledge what’s just happened, or revoke it. She crawls up towards the top of the bed, and lies down, watching Lena as she turns back to see her. There’s something gently intimate about seeing Amélie draw the covers back up to her body, and then untuck them in the space beside her, making an entrance for Lena to slide into.

It’s startling, how her body tenses and locks into place, seeing the way Amélie’s cheeks are still bright with her blush, but her gaze is expectant. There’s hope there, now, Lena thinks, staring back at her through eyes honey-brown and wide. She latches onto it as she crawls up the bed, slips in easily enough, and draws the covers over herself.

With her chronal accelerator in the way, she has to pick a side, and Lena isn’t sure if she _can_ turn her back on Amélie just yet. So, she faces her, and Amélie looks back, and they’re too close to pretend that neither of them can feel it.

“Is this okay?” Lena whispers, doubting herself, but Amélie looks only faintly thankful. She nods her head.

“Just…”

She’s slow in turning over, presenting her back, and Lena sighs a little as she relaxes into the mattress, one hand stuffed beneath a pillow. The other curls up in front of her, and in the limited space between them, Amélie does not have to shuffle back too far before she can feel the outline of Lena’s arm pressed against her back, warm and solid.

It’s a small tether of a connection, but it’s there, all the same.

When Amélie sinks into the bed, this time, there’s something peaceful about her dreamless sleep.

 


	11. Learning to Speak Again

Amélie’s less intimidating in her sleep.

There’s something about being granted the simple intimacy of seeing her this vulnerable that makes Lena’s face burn that first morning, when she rolls over to find Amélie on her back, limbs splayed, her lips parted. It’s such a different pose to how she’d gone to bed.

There’d been something almost ritualistic in the way she had prepared to sleep. It had taken her too long to find the right pose, and not through discomfort. There was something practiced about the way she’d known how to fold her body into the bed, like if she didn’t do it exactly right then she would have to start again, and again, until she was able to sleep.

And this is how Amélie sleeps.

Her back to Lena, arms tucked beneath the covers but the sheets slack around her. Hidden, but not tangled. Easy to escape from. One leg outstretched behind her –  still so flexible despite the circumstances. It has to be uncomfortable. The cool tips of her toes press on Lena’s bare skin. Making sure she’s still there?

And this is how Lena finds her, upon waking.

Breathing heavily, one arm above her head, the other tucked into her chest, fingers gently curled. Her head at an unnatural angle, yet comfortable enough for her to sleep through it. One leg above the covers as she’d overheated in the night, trapping half of them beneath her and leaving Lena with little on her side.

Utterly unaware.

It’s the most relaxed Lena has seen her since their arrival here – since finding her in post-op slumber on the hospital bed, even. And, still, dark circles beneath her eyes. A sullen complexion. Sun-starved, exhausted. Lena thinks she knows a little of how that feels…

There’s never very much natural light to filter into the building, but Lena assumes it’s still early based on her body’s first instinct to go back to sleep. Still, she stretches until her limbs shake with enough vigor to tremble the mattress, and then sits up. Amélie doesn’t stir, but for a brief shift in her breathing pattern, and Lena thinks she could just slip out of bed without disturbing her.

She’s about to, as well, one foot hanging over the edge of the mattress, when she pauses. Would it be rude to just… slip away, as if nothing had happened? It leaves a strange feeling in her chest – one that Lena is shamefully familiar with.

Though it’s not much of a walk of shame when her room is only a few doors down, right?

Would Amélie be annoyed if she left before she’d woken? From what she’d gathered the night before, Amélie didn’t have much luck sleeping when alone. Could Lena’s slipping out now actually affect that? She looks so peaceful, as though nothing could wake her…

Would it make things more or less awkward if she ignored this entire thing, or acknowledged what had happened?

“Bloody hell…”

An irritated sigh comes from the bed, and when Lena turns back to Amélie, she isn’t all that surprised to find her awake. It still sends her heartbeat into something of a stampede. Amélie’s still on her back, her head twisted towards Lena, both hands now stretched above her. She glares while she yawns, but Lena thinks that might just be her face, and so doesn’t react.

“Sorry,” she says when Amélie’s finished popping her joints. “I was gonna let you sleep.”

“No need,” with a faint enough shoulder roll. Her voice sounds scratchier with sleep, heavier. She clears her throat twice and rubs her eyes. “You can scurry away now.”

“Oh, I wasn’t scurrying.”

“ _Right_.”

“I wasn’t – I didn’t know if you’d want me to stay and, I mean, I’m hungry, you know? I have to pee.”

“My god, Lena.”

“This absolutely isn’t weird, at all.”

Amélie makes an irritated noise and rolls over onto one side, showing her back.

Well then.

“You want any breakfast?”

“ _S'il vous plait_ …”

She’ll take that as a yes.

 

 

It’s late-evening when Angela gets the call, which means it must be later, still, for Winston.

“Is everything alright?”

Her first port-of-call. The answer to that is usually fairly obvious, and while they try to stay in touch, Winston has little reason to call up but for social catch-ups. Something about the hour tells her that this isn’t the case tonight.

“Angela,” he starts, in a tentative if stoic voice, and Angela is given the sudden impression of a school boy about to admit a mistake to his professor. She urges him on with a short hum. “I’ve been thinking more on what we last talked about – you remember?”

A brief hesitation. In all truth, she couldn’t possibly forget. Even now, a brief twang of terror reverberates through her body. Her palms feel cold and moist, and she takes turns to wipe them against her thighs, juggling the phone against her ear.

“Yes.”

“I think it’s time.”

“I see,” Angela says, and lets it sit at that for a while longer. On the other end of the line, she hears Winston’s breathing, heavy but relaxed. Unbeknownst to him, Angela’s face turns a drastic shade of pale. “Who else have you spoken to?”

“Just you, so far.”

“Then I think we should speak again before you share the announcement – properly, I mean. Can you meet me in person?”

Winston’s confusion is evident in his hesitation, but he does not refuse. Once they’ve agreed on a time and a place, Angela ends the call and sets her phone down on her bedside table, right beside the book and the half-glass of wine that she had been steadily progressing through.

Now, neither seem quite so appealing.

 

 

On the first day of the new month, the air is crisp and clear with change.

Outside, earth smells damp and rich with fallen leaves, like an autumnal blanket dousing the world in a perpetual orange-gold, pumpkin-cinnamon, spicy and warm. Inside, the Overwatch building is its same dusty, disused self – bleak and cold and uninviting.

Lena marks the date on her phone’s calendar as she’s scrolling through it. When she realises just how long they’ve been tucked away indoors, she almost can’t believe it. Almost a month, now, and Amélie has yet made no move to leave. It’s not that she couldn’t, either. She’s stronger now, on her feet, doing limited exercise, even. She could walk out the door without Lena even noticing, if that’s what she wanted, although Lena has begun questioning that that’s it, at all.

It’s not so much that she believes Amélie _enjoys_ walking around these dark corridors, wearing ill-fitting clothes and squirrelling away bottles of Vitamin D tablets – and the rest. Rather, Lena suspects it has to do with how _quiet_ the world outside has become. Lena tries to keep in touch with the goings on out there, political and social, while Amélie shows little interest.

It’s as if life outside this empty building has completely stopped, as if the tarmac and soil surrounding them have all crumbled away to nothing, leaving only this building standing. A testament to their own temple of isolation. It’s a strange feeling, and Lena has only just begun to worry that it might become a problem. She knows Amélie struggles – she _knows_ – but there hasn’t been anything like that last argument they had, weeks ago.

There hasn’t been _anything_ like that moment on the rooftop, and now Lena has to worry that it won’t be that easy to spot, anymore. Something like the subtle disregard for all life outside of their private bubble, though, has a warning light flashing in Lena’s brain.

It’s as if she isn’t interested in what’s going on out there, because _she_ isn’t interested in going out there at all.

Could it be fear, Lena wonders? They still don’t know what Talon are up to – if they’re still searching for her. It seems unlikely that she’d be forgotten, and yet they haven’t found this place, yet, so perhaps they’ve accepted her loss. Lena can hope.

It’s something she’ll raise with Amélie, she thinks, and makes a little note in her phone so that she doesn’t forget. _Talk to Amélie about The World and how to get back into it_.

Easy peasy.

While her phone is open, Lena skims through an app she’s got tucked away inside three consecutive folders. It takes a few seconds to load, but refreshes with an up-to-date location of all police scanners present within its radius. Lena doesn’t have her earphones with her, but her thumb hovers over a transmission without tapping it.

It’s been a while since she’s done this – before, it had kept her going, but it hadn’t been enough. Lena could do two or even three runs on any given night, and it only burned down the satisfaction of the job even quicker. It was exhausting, and not only because of all the strenuous activity involved.

With Amélie – with this strange situation that’s taken them underground – she’s been given a new focus.

Bringing Amélie back to good health, or on the way there, at least, hasn’t been easy. She’s made mistakes, learned how to cook several new meals, and how to weather the unpredictability of Amélie’s mood swings. In all truth, she’s sure she’s only scratched the surface, but it’s been a thick surface. And aside from having to remove Amélie’s stitches with her help, she hasn’t once regretted getting herself into this situation.

Still, when faced with the irrefutable proof of just how long she’s spent in hiding, in not being _out there_ , helping, doing _something_ , she can’t help but feel an old anxiety gnaw away at her nerves. It feels as though she should be doing more – taking on more, burning herself up the way she used to, in those good old days when she was with Overwatch, when Overwatch _was_.

It’s over-ambitious, and yet Lena can recognise that, so she can withhold the impulse.

Instead, she considers Amélie, and the tentative conversations they have, never quite mentioning her progress, never really bringing attention to Widowmaker and all that she’d suffered – all the suffering she’s caused. Lena can’t truthfully say that it doesn’t fill her with terror, the idea of broaching these subjects, and yet somebody needs to.

She’s all Amélie has, at this point, if she’ll have her at all.

“You’re thinking hard,” a voice says, quite unexpectedly, because Lena had been thinking hard – so hard, in fact, that she’d missed Amélie having entered the little breakroom, a dirty coffee mug in hand. She’s paused by the door, appraising Lena’s dormant, slouched form on the couch, her eyes faintly narrowed. She looks uncertain and inquisitive, and Lena guesses why.

“No bad news, love, don’t worry. I still haven’t heard anything about Talon – no one can get a visual on them, though, so it’s looking less likely that they’re still searching.” She exits quickly out of the police transmissions app, letting her phone drop onto her belly just below her crossed arms. “You want something to eat?”

“Non,” Amélie says, and continues her journey to the sink. “Thank you.”

“Hey, can I ask you somethin’?”

Amélie makes a noise that doesn’t exactly answer her question.

“Have you ever thought of just wearing a disguise?”

Amélie pauses at the sink, turns to her briefly, if only to show Lena her deadpan expression, and then turns back around again. “Disguise?” she asks, turning the faucet on low. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Lena urges, sitting up to better see her, “so that we could get out of this place for a while. You have to be feeling a little claustrophobic by now, right? It wouldn’t have to be anything big, we could buy food or just take a walk, get some fresh air. You stick on a big black trench coat and some glasses, a hat… we could even cut your hair.”

Amélie looks down at the ponytail hanging over her shoulder – inquisitively, Lena notes, feeling encouraged.

“We could go to watch a film – you know, if you’re worried about being seen, and all. All we’d be doing is sitting in the dark. I know there’s at least one stupid horror film out at the moment, if you fancied it?”

For a second, Amélie’s lips upturn at a corner, unable to stop herself from imagining the scenario. For a second, she thinks she wouldn’t mind donning a big black trench coat and glasses, and sitting in the dark with Lena, watching a silly horror flick. It loses its appeal the more she lets herself think about it – her enjoyment, that is, and the strange amalgamation of emotions that go along with it.

“No,” she says again, turning briefly to look back over one shoulder at Lena’s pouting face. It’s exaggerated with the intention of dispelling the tension in the room, and Amélie lets it. She takes a deep breath in and sighs it back out again, “ _non, non, non_ ,” like a little song. “It’s too risky.”

“Right…”

The tap water fills up the basin surrounding Amélie’s mug, so high that the pot falls sideways and eventually bobs beneath the surface. Amélie lets the water stop, then, and plunges her hands in among the bubbles and the steam.

“You have some strange ideas,” she says, loud enough for Lena to hear.

In response, the closing of the breakroom door.

 

When Amélie finds Lena again, it’s in the dimly lit gym, hanging upside down by the knees on a piece of apparatus that she doesn’t recognise – nor cares to. Lena watches her approach, and eventually swings herself back down again when Amélie comes into sight. Her face is bright pink, all the blood having rushed into her cheeks to make them large and girlish – like a messy-haired cherub in an old pastel painting.

Amélie can’t help but spare a moment to appreciate the effect.

“You’re bored,” she tells Lena, who doesn’t refute it. “You want to leave. I think you should, if that’s how you feel.”

When Lena lands it is heavy and unbalanced, with a creak of metal from the apparatus above her.

“What, slow down—what?”

“Being here all the time, it’s not good for you. When was the last time you went outdoors, saw some sunlight?”

“Uh, about the same time as you…?”

“Mn,” Amélie shrugs, shaking her head briefly, as though to toss that little line right aside. Unimportant, she thinks, and Lena feels it as though Amélie’s swatted the words right off her lips. “Except you don’t need to hide yourself away like this. You can be out there, if you want to be, and so why you’re not…” She sends Lena a pointed look. “Don’t hide on my behalf, Lena, I don’t need it. I certainly don’t need a caretaker.”

The way she presents the argument, with a stern, arching brow, brokers no dispute.

Lena, as always, manages it anyway.

“Listen, I’m not leaving you here on your own, I’m not that cruel.” She’s also not that stupid. “I brought you here, I’ll stay with you, and that’s the end of it.”

Amélie is quiet for a moment, but her expression warns Lena that it won’t stay that way. After a brief pause, she asks, “And if I wanted to leave?” As though she does – which has Lena thinking. Panicking a little, too. “Would you stop me, or would you follow me around the way you used to, like a little moth?”

“…moth?”

“Lena?”

“No,” she says, shrugs, her arms extending out from her sides and then landing with a huff and an overly loud slap to her thighs. “No, I won’t stop you, I won’t follow you – I might ask you to get a phone, first, so we could keep in contact, but—”

Amélie lets out an aggravated sigh, and Lena almost throws her arms out again.

“ _What_?”

“I’m saying,” Amélie emphasises, frowning now, “that you don’t need to put your life on hold for me. Look at you, you haven’t spent a night outside this building since we arrived – how long ago was that? Don’t you have a job, Lena, friends?”

“Huh…”

“ _Any_ other commitments?” Incredulous, Amélie lets the tension in her jaw relax. “ _God_ , how did you ever survive without Overwatch?”

“Alright now, love,” Lena huffs, hands on her hips. “If we’re going to get into this, let’s go the journey. It’s all good you telling me to get a social life, but can you honestly say that you’d be fine here on your own if I left? Do you think you’d have made it this far, even, without me here with you?”

“ _Tch_.” Amélie would scoff if she weren’t so annoyed. “ _Oui_ , the building is convenient, but I’ve never needed you to take care of me. You’re not the best company, Lena, you’re loud and irritating and you cannot cook. If I’d have been left alone after that operation—”

“Aha! The operation wouldn’t have even happened without _my help_!”

Amélie opens her mouth to speak, but it only hangs open for a second, two, three, before she closes it with a short grunt. Her jaw is tense as wire, protruding from her sallow skin with a prominent edge. “What are we even arguing for?” she asks after a moment. “This shouldn’t be up for debate. I can tell how frustrated you are, being kept in here. It isn’t good for you, and you shouldn’t force yourself to stay.”

Lena lets out a meaningful sigh, and Amélie’s jaw relaxes some.

“I’m not saying that you shouldn’t come back,” she tells the floor, where her eyes are firmly fixed. “Take a break. A few nights, however long you need. I’ll be fine here in the meantime.”

“I—” It sounds too much like a protest when Lena speaks, and Amélie’s gaze finds her own, quick and sharp and halting whatever she was going to say before it manages to wriggle free. Instead, a short breath, and Lena shrugs her shoulders. “I’ll think about it, then.”

“Okay.” Amélie nods her head, but a thick weight seems to pull at her stomach, something an awful lot like dread. Like regret. “Good.”

“Happy now?”

“…yes.”

 

It’s raining when Lena leaves, which feels awfully fitting.

A taxi carries her home, to the flat she’s checked in on sparingly during her stay at Overwatch HQ. In under thirty minutes, she’s standing on her doormat, dripping faintly, trying to remember what she’s supposed to do with herself now. She turns on a set of wall lights, and a bulb instantly bursts, leaving the room dimly lit in the corner and shadowy elsewhere.

It had been a sanctuary, of sorts, to have her own place – be independent again, after relying on Overwatch for so long.

Now, her flat feels cramped and unfamiliar.

Well. She’s always been extremely efficient at making herself feel right at home where she doesn’t fit in. Her first port of call: she fills the kettle and sets it to boil while she changes out of her wet clothes. They’re popped straight into the washing machine, and without guilt. To say her bills aren’t exactly breaking the bank these days would be an understatement.

By the time the heating’s come on, Lena’s got her legs up on the sofa and a pot of tea in her lap, burning her slightly through her leggings. The TV is on, but there’s nothing to keep her interest. Some big headlines she’s already read, and some local news is all that catch her attention until a scheduled sitcom begins and Lena tunes out.

She looks down at the house phone on her coffee table.

She’d had little use for it until now, and usually kept the landline unplugged. Anyone who wanted to get a hold of her knew how to, she’d figured. Her first few calls of the night had gone ignored, but that was almost an hour ago, and Lena imagines Amélie would have come down for something to eat by now. With that in mind, she reaches for the phone and taps in the number she’s learned by heart.

It rings for thirty seconds before Lena checks the time at her wrist.

It’s entirely possible that Amélie can hear the annoying tune coming from the kitchen counter, and is ignoring it. Would it surprise her, if that were the case? Probably not. Still, she holds on for another two minutes, her attention focusing back on the TV screen while she waits for an answer. Vaguely, she wonders how long her phone will let her call it without answering, having turned the voicemail off.

She’s almost tuned out the automated ringing in one ear when the line finally opens.

The shock of it has Lena sitting up straighter, but there’s only silence on the other end of the line.

“Amélie…?”

A sigh.

“Did you ever plan to leave me alone?”

“Oh, I—”

“Don’t tell me you left your phone here by accident, Lena.” She doesn’t sound entirely amused. “I’m not an idiot. But, you, on the other hand… Did it ever occur to you that you getting out of the building for a few days was for my own wellbeing, as much as it was yours?”

“Well, now that you’re asking, no. Nope, it did not.”

“Should I expect to find cameras dotted around, too? Are you watching me, Lena?” And then, voice turning sibilant and so soft that it sends a shiver down her spine. “How many fingers am I holding up, _chérie_?”

She swallows. “Just the one, I bet.”

“And can you guess which one?”

“Yep.”

There’s another sigh on the other end of the line, the noise dwindling out as the receiver is pulled away from Amélie’s face. Lena quickly surmises that she’s about to have the line put down on her, and shouts, “wait!” A pause. The line hasn’t gone dead yet, and so Lena imagines Amélie has returned her phone to her ear. “I’m bored.”

“Read a book.”

“What…? I’m being serious.”

“So am I. You could be doing anything you want right now. You’ve just got out of this place, and you decide to call back – to _check in_? I can promise you, Lena, nothing much has changed in the three hours that you’ve been gone.”

There’s a tense pause, but Lena’s too stubborn to give up. She really is bored, too.

“What would you do?”

“What?”

“If you were me. If you were out here, with the whole world at your disposal,” she pantomimes the words with an airy flair, rolling a hand in the air for good measure. “How would you spend _your_ time?”

The line holds quiet for a moment while Amélie thinks, and Lena gives her the time. She can practically hear Amélie going through ideas in her head, sorting them into priority order, satisfaction level, flicking through them with ease like she would the glossy pages of a colourful magazine.

Finally, Amélie speaks.

“I’d get hammered.”

Lena squawks with laughter. She can’t be sure, but thinks there’s a hint of amusement from Amélie’s end of the line, as well.

“It has been a rough few weeks, hasn’t it?” she asks, and receives a faint noise of agreement in reply. “I think I still have a bottle of something around here, maybe just some beer. It doesn’t exactly appeal when I’m on my own, though.” She looks back down to her tea, tapping her fingers against the rim of the mug.

“Still, that’s _rubbish_. You have the entire world at your disposal, and you choose to get pissed?”

She lets out an exaggerated puff of air.

“You said I could do anything I wanted,” Amélie argues back, sounding less amused, now. “That’s what I chose.”

“Alright, alright. So what’s your poison?”

“I… don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve had anything to drink. I think I liked wine. Red, more than white.” She turns quiet, introspective. For lack of anything to say, Lena gives her all the time she needs to continue.

And, curiously, Amélie does. As though she has something to prove – as though she needs to explain.

(As though, Lena thinks, she wants to say the words aloud for herself, and doesn’t necessarily mind that Lena is hearing them.)

“They didn’t like it when I drank,” she says, and Lena does not ask who. Doesn’t have to. “Alcohol disarms you, leaves you compromised. I remember what it’s like to feel stupid drunk, but I don’t know the last time that I was. One glass of strong wine could probably get me there, these days. It’s been that long, my tolerance for it must be appalling.”

“What happened to you?” Lena asks when Amélie trails off and remains silent for longer than five seconds. “When you were with them.” Her voice is so quiet, tentative. She almost wouldn’t even blame Amélie for putting the phone down now. “What was it like?”

There’s a long pause, and the longer that it drags out without the call terminating, the more certain Lena is that Amélie will answer.

She braces herself for it.

“It’s difficult to explain,” Amélie tells her, finally. Her voice is hard, but Lena hears her intake of breath, as though she means to add more. “A lot of it feels… unreal. Or too real. I feel very unlike myself, now, out here, but I didn’t feel like I had a _self_ when I was with them.”

“That sounds like a defence mechanism…”

“I know,” Amélie agrees. “But that’s all I was to them. I was created for a purpose. I fulfilled it well, until you began to meddle.”

“You sound a bit angry about that.”

“Mm,” Amélie says, at length, neither confirming nor denying. “Things were much less complicated before. And maybe that is the simple truth of it, or maybe I just didn’t see what was happening for what it really was.”

“Maybe it’s just a little of both.”

Amélie falls silent at the phrase, and Lena wants to press her for further information, but stops herself before she can get out another word. There’s so much that she wants the answer to – about Talon, about _Widowmaker_ , about Amélie herself, if the two of those identities can ever be separated.

_A little of both_ , Lena thinks again.

“Do you know the easiest way to disarm a person, Lena?” Amélie asks, and Lena thinks on that for a moment. Her first instinct is to lean towards something combative, or physical restraint. She thinks on it for too long, and Amélie answers for her. “You take away their voice. You take away their words.”

“They took away your language,” Lena says, and Amélie makes a faint noise to confirm that she has guessed correctly.

Or perhaps it wasn’t a guess at all.

“It was… discouraged.” The word is weighted with every single awful idea that runs through Lena’s mind when she imagines just what must have been done to Amélie, while she was with Talon. “To speak it was a defiance. I would let it slip, occasionally, as though to test the boundaries. If I used it often enough, they would take me down for further treatment.”

“Treatment?” Lena is almost too afraid to ask.

There’s a longer pause, this time, and with it comes the impression that Amélie is not going to divulge the answer to that. Lena doesn’t think she minds, at all, in a way. When the line has been silent for sufficiently long, Amélie speaks again.

“I don’t imagine I will ever learn to be the person I was before any of this happened, but I am learning how to speak again. I think that must count for something.”

“It counts for a lot,” Lena answers quietly, and like that the conversation dissipates until Amélie is telling her that she’s ready for bed. What remains unsaid is how alone she will be tonight, for the first time in too long, and how much she dreads to discover how dependent she has become on that small, restless body tossing and turning in bed beside hers.

“Goodnight, then,” Lena says, stretching out her legs.

Her tea is cold and all but forgotten on her belly.

“ _Dormez bien_ ,” Amélie tells her, and the line goes dead.


End file.
